


Anomalous Elixirs

by revealing



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Chronic Illness, Developing Relationship, Facial Shaving, Frequent Seagull Mentions, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyamory, Potions, Secrets, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revealing/pseuds/revealing
Summary: Geralt moved to a small seaside town as a recently divorced empty-nester trying to start over. His new life as an alchemist and herbalist is the idyllic life he's always wanted, until suddenly it isn't. Geralt finds himself battling a mysterious potion-related illness while developing relationships with the local barber and toy shop owner, and hoping he can figure out what's wrong with him and fix it before it ruins everything: his small business, his fresh start, and whatever is happening between him and Regis and Dettlaff.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 65
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Late entry for three prompts in [Geralt Whump Week](http://geraltwhumpweek.tumblr.com) that took on a life of its own.
> 
> Warnings for each chapter in the chapter's end notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

The seagulls are calling when Geralt wakes up, the only things out and about at this hour. Geralt's an early riser, always woken up at dawn by his internal clock, and he likes to go for a walk along the shore before he starts the day. He makes himself a cup of tea and drinks it in silence before leaving his small studio apartment, going downstairs into his shop, and making his way through it and out the front door. Geralt steps over the pavement of the little side street the shop's on the corner of and is on the beach within seconds. The sea waves are calm, the sun is gentle, and the early summer air is warm with a light breeze. Geralt would still be out here if the weather was less pleasant, though. He tries to go out every morning no matter what, figuring there's no point in moving to the seashore if he's not going to enjoy the sea. 

Everything's quiet at this time of day, the noise limited to the breaking waves and the seagulls, and that's how Geralt likes it. Duén Lara is quiet in general, and that's why he moved here. Because the small seaside town is a good place to relax, and a good place to start over. 

Once Geralt's done with his daily walk up the shoreline, strolling the length of the boardwalk and back, he returns to his shop. There's sand on his sandaled feet and a bit of brine in his hair, and he's ready to prepare for the day ahead. 

Geralt's shop is peaceful. It's the kind of place he's happy to come into every day, which is the best he can ask for. It's one part alchemist and one part herbalist and one part florist, because Geralt got tired of spending his life doing shit he didn't want to do and combined a bunch of things he likes and hoped it'd work out, which it did. It's small and cluttered: the front is filled with plants and flowers, the middle is occupied by packets of dried herbs and bottles of tinctures and bags of his own loose tea blends, and the back is all shelves of vials containing the main components of his business - his potions. 

The back wall also has two doors, leading into the two rooms where the magic happens. One is the workroom he uses for things like drying herbs, mixing tea blends, making tinctures, and packaging both the items he sells in his shop and the ones he mails out to fill phone and online orders. The second is Geralt's haven: the lab where he brews his potions. It's tiny and the equipment isn't the newest and it's probably not as well-ventilated as it should be, but none of that matters. It's a designated place for Geralt to brew things, and that's what he's been wanting for twenty years. Half his life. Part of that is because it lets him make a lot of potions, and make them well. The other part of it is that it's a place he can make them professionally, finally turning what's been stuck as his hobby into the foundation of his life. 

That could apply to the whole shop, though. Geralt didn't know much about starting a business when he decided to open it, but he did it anyway because he'd hit the point where he'd be more miserable not trying to open it than trying and failing. It turned out to be the best choice he's ever made. Or maybe a sequence of choices, adding up to one very risky early midlife crisis. Geralt moved to a seaside town he'd never visited before, rented the available retail space closest to the beach, spent everything he had filling it, named the place _Elixirs_ after about sixty seconds of thinking, and then made both the store and the apartment above it his new home. But the shop is great. Geralt might call it a dream come true, if he was the kind of guy to dream. 

Getting ready for the day is a well coordinated routine. First Geralt climbs the outside stairs to his rooftop garden, goes around to check on each raised container holding a patch of one of the assortment of herbs and flowers he grows himself, then waters or fertilizes whichever plants are due for it or look like they need it. Second he goes back down to his shop and does the same for the indoor plants for both sale and display, swapping the fertilizer out for plant food, and shifts them around to make sure whichever plants look like they need more sunlight are getting the best view of the big windows in the front of the shop. Third he neatly arranges all the herbal products he put together or packaged the night before, them dumped onto their respective displays to be tidied up in the morning. Fourth he does the same to the vials of potions on the back shelves, checking each of the newly bottled ones to make sure he screwed the lids on tightly enough and turning them so the labels are facing clearly outward. Fifth he unlocks the shop door because if he doesn't do it now he'll forget to do it at all, and he's not too worried about being disturbed because nobody comes in this early and the bell over the door will let him know if somebody decides to ignore the list of hours clearly posted on the outside of it. 

Geralt's favorite part of the preparations, though, is the last one. This is when he goes back into his lab to check on whatever potions he's got brewing, do any stirring or ingredient adding or temperature changing they might need - something he does multiple times throughout the day, with the way potions are finicky things that need a lot of tending to - then bottle up whichever ones are done and start any new ones he's low on stock of. Sometimes this means mixing a few things together and leaving them to stew or simmer, and sometimes it means doing a quick one from start to finish. He's happy doing anything in the potion-making process, for any potion. It's all he's ever really wanted to do since his first easy mix two decades ago. 

Today's main brew is Geralt's best seller. Not the one he sells the most of, but the one that brings in the most money. It's his specialty, the one he's known for both inside their little town and outside it. It's his best one, too. It's tricky, but he's never gotten it wrong once in the eighteen years he's been seriously brewing it, not since he mastered it while he was six years into the construction job he lied about his age to get so he wouldn't have to live on the street at sixteen. Geralt didn't do a lot with his hobbies back then, didn't have the time or space or money to do enough gardening or herb handling or potion making to turn them into something he could profit from. But he became very glad to have them when he got older, when body started to show serious signs of wear and tear and long term effects of various injuries both from his job and his misspent youth, and he realized he couldn't work in construction forever around the time his daughter picked a very expensive university. This potion is the one that inspired him to start his own business, and it's become the foundation of it. 

Geralt heads over to the burner his prize potion is simmering away on. According to the clock on the wall and the timer above the burner, it should be just about done. It should've fully undergone the reduction process by now, properly evaporated and thickened overnight. He inspects the viscous white liquid, breathing in its pungent scent. Same ingredients as every batch: one bottle of his proprietary Dwarven Spirit alcoholic potion base, two leaves of ribleaf, and four hearts from nekker frogs. Geralt can tell by the smell that it's perfect, ready to bottle and store in its own little case in a prime location near the register, but he tries all his potions before declaring them ready to sell no matter what. Can't risk getting anything wrong and poisoning a customer. This one in particular is good for him, with all the aches and pains he's developed over the years. Geralt gets a clean spoon and a pipette out of the sterile container he keeps assorted implements in, draws up enough liquid from the pot to fill the spoon with, and downs the White Raffard's Decoction. 

The effect is instant. 

Geralt's body seizes up and he lets out a strangled noise of surprise and pain, the spoon clattering on the floor. Agony floods every part of him, tearing through his veins and throbbing in his bones and burning in his muscles, blazing red hot in his chest, pulsing in his head. His stomach cramps so violently he doubles over, collapsing onto the floor clutching his middle, gasping for breath. Heat flares up under his skin and he's racked with violent shivers, cold sweat beading on his face, and he groans as it runs down his skin in rivulets. He shakes and whimpers, retching up tea and bile and potion onto the ground in front of him, barely keeping from falling into the puddle as he pitches forward and convulses. Panic seizes him, and he flails an arm out blindly until he manages to grip onto a cabinet door handle and then a countertop and drag himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the counter. He needs to get help. It's the only coherent thought in his mind, everything else whited out by the overwhelming pain. He needs to get help because his body is melting apart and he's going to die, he's going to fucking die. He's going to fucking die. 

Geralt stumbles out of the lab and into the shop, chest heaving as he struggles for breath and trembling legs threatening to give out from under him at any moment. He's got one arm wrapped around his abdomen in an attempt to stop the aggressive spasms of his stomach, but he retches again as his other hand gropes around for something, anything to hold himself up with. He knocks aside something that smashes and staggers into something else that falls, and the last thing he hears is the sound of clanging metal and shattering glass before he convulses again, drops to his knees, cries out in agony, falls onto his back, and has time for another second of complete and total panic before everything goes dark. 

The first thing Geralt hears is the soft calling of seagulls. The next things are the aggressive crashing of sea waves and the distant chatter of the streets filled with Duén Lara's residents going about their business. The final thing is a voice like a faraway echo. Geralt can't make out what it's saying, with the way his mind is blurry and his head is full of a horrible ache. He can tell he's lying down on his back and unmoving but he's still so dizzy. Breathing takes effort, his chest nearly too heavy to lift, and he feels so nauseous his body goes sickly cold a few times before it subsides the slightest bit. The ground beneath him is sharp, and his mouth tastes awful. His whole body is sore, and his stomach feels like it's been twisted like a rope and then wrung out. Geralt lays there and painfully breathes for a while, until the voice speaks again and something touches his shoulder. He groans. 

"Fuck," Geralt mumbles, because there's nothing in his body that doesn't feel terrible. 

"How should I help you?" the voice asks again, and it finally comes through clearly. 

It takes Geralt a while to come up with an answer, because his brain's not piecing fragmented thoughts together and he doesn't know why he's on the ground feeling like he's been torn apart from the inside out, but then it comes back to him. The lab. The pot. The spoon. The White Raffard's Decoction. The pain. The illness. The shop. The noises. The floor. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and his throat is raw when he gets out hoarsely, "White Honey. Back wall. Third shelf. White. Label." 

The comforting pressure on Geralt's shoulder remains for a moment before it's gone, and booted footsteps clomp along the wood floor. He hears the clink of two glass vials clinking together, then footsteps again. Geralt cracks his eyelids open the tiniest bit, the bit of light coming from the window through the plants piercing all the way through the sore eyeballs beneath them. Everything's a blur, but from the smudges of colors he can make out the basic details of the person kneeling over him: a tall man with dark hair and an even darker coat despite the day's heat. The man looks familiar, but Geralt can't place him. Everybody's supposed to know each other in small towns, but Geralt's not social. Doesn't go out much. He only knows his shop's regulars and the people who work at the grocery and produce market and drugstore. Geralt knows he's passed this man on the street and seen him in a couple other places, exchanged the polite nods and mumbled the _good morning_ or _good afternoon_ or _good evening_ that's the bare minimum of politeness in this town, but a name doesn't come to him. Geralt keeps his eyes open just long enough to tell the right bottle's been brought over, then closes them again. 

"Is this the correct one?" the man asks, and Geralt grunts in assent. The White Honey will clear the potion from his system and deal with any toxicity from it. He must've fucked it up. It doesn't make sense, because it smelled fine and he hasn't fucked up White Raffard's Decoction since he was first fiddling around with the recipe as a twenty two year old kid with cheap secondhand equipment, but he must've. Or maybe an ingredient was bad, though that doesn't make sense either, since everything was in perfect condition when he put it all together yesterday. He doesn't know _how_ it would've been fucked up, because nothing was off about the look or smell or taste or consistency of the brew. But something must've gone wrong. No other reason his body would've reacted the way it did. "Whole bottle?" 

Geralt grunts again. He tries to raise his head but can't, because the muscles in his neck are as limp as all his other muscles and he doesn't have the strength to even twitch a finger. Which is unfortunate, because he's slowly becoming aware of the fact that he's lying in broken glass and ceramic and plant soil and spilled liquid. There's something cold and metal under one of his arms and one of his thighs. But the man seems to figure out Geralt's in no condition to move and lifts Geralt's head up himself, cradling it in a strong hand, and all Geralt has to do is swallow the potion tipped into his mouth. He lets out something that's half a sigh and half a groan as it goes down his sensitive throat, the slight burn of Dwarven Spirit putting an edge on the sweetness of the honeysuckle. Geralt tries to concentrate on that feeling rather than the pain for the few seconds it usually takes for it to start working, and waits to feel better.

He doesn't. 

"Who're you?" Geralt mumbles to the dark haired man in the coat, trying to pass a little more time until the potion starts working. It should've done so by now, so it can't be long until it kicks in. The question comes out sounding rude, but hopefully he'll get a pass on that considering the circumstances.

"Dettlaff van der Eretein," the man replies. 

The name sounds familiar. It takes Geralt a bit, but he gets it. "Toy shop." 

"Yes." Dettlaff's voice is low and quiet and lacking in warmth, but is surprisingly pleasant to listen to given how negatively Geralt's head is reacting to even the slightest noise. "And you are Geralt..." 

"Bellegarde." Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, but he's not admitting that to anyone. "Potions and plants." 

"Yes," Dettlaff replies, which is a polite way to say _I know that, because I'm in your shop_.

"What'd you come in for?" Geralt might as well ask, because they're stuck on the floor until the White Honey does its thing, but he's still not feeling the effects. Did he fuck that up too? He brewed this batch a couple days ago and it was fine, completely different ingredients than the White Raffard's Decoction from hell, and he's even had customers tell him how good it turned out. None of this makes sense. But with the way Geralt's brain is muddled, nothing is really making sense. 

"That isn't important." Dettlaff's voice leaves no room for argument. A big hand brushes Geralt's tangled and sweaty hair back from his face, callused fingers stroking at the dirty strands, and Geralt realizes Dettlaff's picking broken glass out of them. "Are you well enough to be moved? You are lying on potion bottles and a shelf." 

"Sure am," Geralt replies, because he can feel them beneath him. He hopes he didn't break too many potions, and that they weren't the expensive ones. Dettlaff misinterprets that to mean Geralt's ready to be moved, and slides an arm under his back to lift him into a sitting position. Geralt groans and flops like a rag doll in his hold, thinking vaguely that at least the thick sleeves of Dettlaff's coat will keep his arm from getting cut up by the smashed vials. Dettlaff's apparently strong, because Geralt's a muscular and solidly built guy and Dettlaff supports his weight with no problem. He sits there with Geralt, letting him adjust to being upright, and that's nice of him. All of this is nice of him. Geralt appreciates it, but he hates that it's happening. He hates being weak like this. Geralt wants to tell Dettlaff he'll be fine and he should go, but he feels so bad he can't fight this. Plus, he recently spent a few minutes thinking he was dying, and fuck, it scared him bad. Another person talking to him and touching him keeps him certain he's _alive_. 

"What happened?" Dettlaff asks. 

Even fucked up like this, Geralt sees why it'd be a bad idea for the town's alchemist to say _I tried one of my own potions and it might've almost killed me_. Especially since he doesn't know yet if it was his fault. So he says, "Got dizzy. Woke up in broken glass. Typical Tuesday." 

Dettlaff doesn't laugh, but he doesn't seem like the type to laugh. "Do you need to go to the hospital?" 

"No, 'm fine. Just need to rest." Any minute now, the White Honey will start working. It has to. Or maybe it did work, but the after effects of whatever the fuck happened are still wearing off. Geralt _did_ get messed up pretty bad. Maybe he just needs to sleep this off. Either way, this is a potion problem. Potions got him into it, and they'll get him out of it. Not much a hospital could do. "I live upstairs. I'll be fine." 

Dettlaff helps Geralt upstairs with surprising ease, taking all his weight with no problem, and Geralt's glad he got found by a guy who's actually capable of getting Geralt up a flight of stairs with him practically draped over his shoulders and slowing their progress by being too fatigued to move much and repeatedly throwing them off balance with the way he can't place where the floor is under him. Dettlaff is as tall as Geralt is, which isn't very common, and clearly has some strength under that coat. There's a few times over the course of the ten steps where Geralt figures they're about to get reacquainted with the floor at the bottom of them, but Dettlaff holds him steady. 

Geralt left his apartment door unlocked, which is lucky, because he's not sure how they'd manage to get the key out of his pocket and then keep him upright while using it on the door. His apartment isn't the neatest, since he wasn't expecting company, and it's pretty obvious he wasn't planning on it anytime soon. There are dishes in the sink and just-washed laundry dumped on the sofa and open books all over the place, but that's far from the most embarrassing thing about this situation. Geralt's so woozy he groans softly when Dettlaff eases him down on his bed, sliding down the wall sideways until he's half laying down against it. 

To Geralt's confusion, Dettlaff goes to get two dish towels from the kitchen and wets one under the sink faucet. Geralt closes his eyes and stays leaned against the wall as Dettlaff brushes the worst of the dirt and liquid and glass off his hands and the exposed part of his arms and legs, then follows that up by wiping the limbs down with the wet cloth to clean the rest of it off, and towels the glass and plant soil mess out of Geralt's hair. Geralt keeps trying to say stuff like _it's okay_ and _don't worry about it_ and _I'll do it_ and _fuck, sorry_ , but he's so tired that none of it comes out in words. By the time Dettlaff's done Geralt has come around a bit more, enough to get that "fuck, sorry" out and realize he doesn't want to be wearing his clothes anymore. They're still covered in sweat and dirt and brews and sharp things, but he's not about to strip in front of Dettlaff. This whole thing has been embarrassing enough, and Geralt's not going to flash some guy who found him on a floor and was nice enough to get him off it and clean it off him. 

Dettlaff examines Geralt's filthy clothes and gets what's going through his mind. He very obviously averts his eyes and turns his back to Geralt, taking too long to fold up the used dish towels and place them on the floor beside the bed, then acting like there's something fascinating about the chipped blue mug on the coffee table a couple feet away. It takes Geralt a while to struggle out of his clothes, and there's a few times he almost pitches forward off the bed and makes headfirst contact with the wood floor, so he's grateful Dettlaff stuck around in case he knocks himself out and ends up unconscious on the ground again for the second time in what's probably less than a couple hours. The mattress creaks when Geralt finally shoves the dirty cover off the bed onto the floor and crawls under the clean sheet in his underwear, but he doesn't know if Dettlaff turns back around. He's laying on his side facing the wall with his eyes closed, because that's the position he managed to get into before the last of his strength was sapped by how much it took out of him to get his clothes off. 

Geralt thinks he should still feel embarrassed - knows he's going to feel really embarrassed whenever he wakes up - but he's barely conscious and his brain isn't processing emotions like shame. His head is spinning and his vision is tunnelling and graying out and there's a rushing sound in his ears. 

"Thanks. Whatever you came in for, just take it," Geralt mumbles, curling up. "Lock the door on your way out." 

That's it, and Geralt is out. 

Geralt's not well enough to go on his walk the next morning. He's definitely not well enough to go to the small gym on West Seagull Street, even though his workout schedule says he should be there. He spent the rest of yesterday in bed sleeping and woke up only for a brief time last night, which he used mostly to get himself fully clean and put antiseptic on some of the cuts he got in his fall, but despite all that sleep his internal clock doesn't wake him up at dawn. It's a couple hours behind. It's almost never behind. 

Even walking across his little apartment to the kitchen has Geralt drained. His hands shake as he fills the electric kettle from the sink faucet, returns it to its stand, and switches it on. He still feels exhausted, so fucking exhausted, with a lingering ache in his bones that's very different from the one he's gotten from a life of hard labor. Geralt's head is heavy and full of a dull pain and gets dizzy if he tries to hold it upright too long, so he rests it on his crossed arms on his miniature kitchen table as he waits for the water to brew. He's picked a blend with ginger and chamomile to soothe the pervasive nausea and twisting in his stomach. The tea helps a little, but not much. It's strange, fucking strange. He shouldn't be feeling like this. 

Geralt's never closed his shop in the year he's been in Duén Lara, not counting yesterday when it closed itself for him, so he doesn't want to close it today. He tries to get dressed out of sheer stubbornness, but when he has to sit down hard on the sofa near his dresser and lower his head into his hand, breathing unevenly and swallowing down the bile rising in his throat, he's forced to accept there's a first time for everything. Geralt grew up pushing through pain and never admitting defeat and working no matter what, because that mindset was the only thing that kept him alive and under a roof at several points in his life, and it's hard to break out of that deep-set conditioning. But that thinking is why his left elbow doesn't bend right, made him hide an injury to it for several days until it got too fucked up and he almost dropped a beam on another guy on his crew while putting up the frame of a house, so he's come to understand there are some flaws in that philosophy. Maybe by forty years old Geralt should be able to admit when he needs to make an exception to it before he fucks something up enough that he's forced to. And right now that means deciding to close his shop today and getting back into bed. 

Geralt figures he must be feeling so bad because he didn't eat yesterday, spending the short time he was awake too tired to make anything and too nauseous to want to. He's feeling better than yesterday, at least, but that has to be it. Doesn't make sense otherwise. He took White Honey and rested for about twenty four hours so even if something was wrong with the White Raffard's Decoction that he somehow didn't pick up on, he should be more than recovered from a single spoonful of it that he only kept down for a couple seconds. Geralt stares up at the wolf head shape in the water stains on the ceiling above his bed, and listens to the gentle rushing of sea waves on sand and seagull calls until he falls asleep. 

After his nap Geralt is well enough to make another cup of ginger chamomile tea and eat a piece of toast, then go about some basic tasks. With effort he throws on a bathrobe and sandals and makes it downstairs to drink another bottle of White Honey and one of Swallow to help get some strength and energy back. He cleans up the mess on the floor of his lab, but leaves the one out in the shop for when he's confident that if he kneels down to pick up a dustpan he'll be able to get back up again. Geralt dumps some of the other potions he had going yesterday, ones that have been simmering on the heat or steeping on a counter or refrigerator shelf for too long. Two of them have reduced to the point that they're burnt things stuck to the bottom of their respective cookware, and he has to scrape them off before putting them in the dishwasher. He's lucky they weren't anything too rare or too expensive. 

Geralt's been putting off dealing with the last potion, but finally, he has to. It's the noxious White Raffard's Decoction that kicked this whole nightmare off. After it's been on the burner for a whole twenty four hours longer than it's supposed to be it's so ruined that inspecting it isn't going to provide him any useful information. It's one of the ones that takes some scraping to get rid of. But it's not the only thing to deal with. Geralt checks the bottle of Dwarven Spirit he used as the base and finds nothing wrong with the liquid inside, but just to be safe he dumps it. He grew the ribleaf himself and clipped off the leaves he used right before putting them into the potion, and an inspection of the rest of the bag of clippings shows nothing wrong with those either, but he composts them nonetheless. There's nothing wrong with the burner that might've screwed up the temperature, and nothing strange on the spoon he used to stir it or the pipette he used to draw it or the spoon he used to drink it. Nothing. 

Geralt heads back upstairs after promising his shop plants he'll come back in a few hours to care for them and their siblings on the roof, and makes himself another piece of toast since he's kept the first one down this long. As he munches on it he calls over to the place he buys his nekker frog hearts from and asks if they've had any problems with the ones they harvested on the day they harvested his. They haven't, and Geralt knows the ones he got were in fresh condition because they were brand new and hand delivered in a cooler of ice and he inspected them as soon as he got them. They concede it's possible there was something wrong with a given frog and it slipped past them, but with their careful examining and vetting process Geralt really doubts they wouldn't catch a defective product and tells them as much. He hangs up no closer to the answer to the mystery than he was when he first crumpled to the floor yesterday morning. 

The rest of the day passes slowly, too slowly. Geralt takes things easy, manages to get a little more solid food down in the early afternoon, and then handles the still viable potions in the lab that need to be stirred or have temperature or ingredient changes or be taken off the heat and bottled. He doesn't get to fulfilling any of the long list of orders that have come in over the past few days, but those aren't the most urgent thing at the moment. Geralt is able to care for the plants on the roof, even though getting up and down the stairs leaves him drained and stumbling with his muscles burning, and tends to the shop plants as well before he has to take a break and sets himself down on his stool behind the counter. 

The shop plants have probably gotten lonely, since they're used to being talked to frequently throughout the day, so Geralt talks to them for a while. They like being talked to. Geralt usually starts by talking to them about the weather forecast and seagulls he saw on his walk and how their siblings on the roof are doing, then goes into stuff like the books he's reading and whatever he's up to outside the shop that day. But he tends to run out of surface level things to talk about after a while, and since they're good listeners, sometimes he gets a little more personal. Geralt's plants have heard more about his shitty mess of a childhood than anyone, including his absentee mom and his ex-wife Yennefer, and they've heard more about his shitty mess of an adulthood than anyone but Yennefer and his adopted daughter Ciri who he couldn't always hide past and present ugliness from. They've heard only slightly less about his divorce than Yennefer, and she was the one who filed the papers. It's safe to open up to them now, but if any of them ever turns human, Geralt is going to have to kill them. He reminds them of that before, once again, leaving the mess of shattered glass and spilled potions and broken shelf to be dealt with tomorrow. 

By the time he gets into bed that night Geralt is feeling a decent amount better physically, but the mystery keeps haunting him. Even when he recovers all the way, there's going to be something inside him that doesn't truly feel healed until he knows the answer to what happened yesterday morning when he put that one fateful spoonful of White Raffard's Decoction in his mouth. And usually Geralt is good at moving on, but this time, he knows for sure that thing will never be healed until he has an answer. Not even if he has to take the mystery to his grave. 

Geralt's had his shop open for five minutes the next morning when Dettlaff comes in. 

His morning walk got skipped again today and Geralt doesn't like that, uneasy about how tired he still is and the lingering malaise, but other than that he feels like he could be back to his usual self soon. Probably. He discovered he knocked his favorite plant off the counter by the register while he was stumbling around blindly and smashed the ceramic pot Ciri painted for him in a middle school art class, and while he was able to re-pot the plant in a generic planter with no damage done, the pot itself was beyond repair. It was broken into too many pieces for Geralt to do anything but save the thankfully intact piece Ciri painted her name on and try not to get a lump in his throat when he was forced to toss out the rest. After that he finally got around dragging the shelf into his workroom and sweeping up the potion mess, which is what he's in the middle of doing when Dettlaff shows up. 

It's funny, because Geralt has seen Dettlaff around town plenty and got pretty up close and personal with him two days ago, was even planning to stop by his toy shop later with a thank you gift, but seeing him here suddenly is a jolt to his system. Dettlaff's like nobody else in Duén Lara, with the long black coat and heavy boots and brooding aura that make him feel like he's stepped into the sleepy and casual seaside town from another world, and he's unbelievably handsome. He's got piercing light blue eyes with a very intense gaze, and it's fixed directly on Geralt right now. 

"Geralt," Dettlaff says before Geralt can get any words out. He doesn't say it quickly, just that Geralt, notoriously hard to throw off balance, has somehow been caught off guard at the sight of him. 

"Hey, Dettlaff." Geralt's voice doesn't sound right, because he makes the mistake of trying to speak just as everything that happened the last time Dettlaff was here comes crashing back down on him and the embarrassment hits him full force with the ferocity of a crowbar. Dettlaff walks up to the counter, and Geralt wishes he'd thought of what he'd say if they spontaneously ran into each other again. "I... uh. Sorry about the other day. Don't usually go around collapsing like that." 

"Are you feeling better?" Dettlaff asks, those sharp eyes looking Geralt over for signs of lasting damage.

"Yeah, mostly," Geralt replies. He needs to break the inexplicable tension, so he indicates the small piece of the old ceramic pot on the counter next to the generic plant and says, "I'll heal. Could be worse - I could be that pot. It came out worse for wear than me." 

"That is unfortunate," Dettlaff says with full seriousness, because he doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. That's fine. It'd probably throw Geralt off even worse if this grim guy started laughing. "Was it special?" 

"Yeah. My daughter painted it for me the year after I adopted her. So, pretty special." It's quiet for a moment after Geralt's admission, and then he pushes aside the embarrassment at the vague memories he has of Tuesday morning enough to say, "Thanks. You didn't have to drag my ass upstairs and get glass off me. Appreciate that you did." 

"It was nothing," Dettlaff replies. His gaze is still so intense that Geralt feels a little hot. He's getting the sense that Dettlaff is very intense in general. "I'm glad you're feeling much improved." 

Dettlaff turns to leave, and Geralt says, "Wait." 

Geralt hadn't decided what to give Dettlaff as a thank you gift. Maybe a small herb plant, a bag of tea, a potion, something useful, but he hadn't settled on anything. He thought he'd have more time to figure it out. Without knowing much about Dettlaff, it's hard to pick something. He seems pretty mysterious, and Geralt can't begin to guess what he'd like. The only thing he really knows about Dettlaff is he's tall, dark, and handsome, plus a little bit ominous. But it feels like it'd be rude to let him go without giving him a gift now. Something draws Geralt's attention out of the corner of his eye, and it's within easy reach. It's a bright red flower in a small black ceramic pot, eye-catching and not too space-consuming and already planted in something it can stay in, so put on the spot, it feels like a good present. Geralt grabs the pot quickly and holds the flower out to Dettlaff as he turns back around. "I, uh. Wanted to say thanks." 

Dettlaff takes the pot from Geralt and looks closely at the flower. As he observes it his cold face softens, and to Geralt's surprise, the corner of one of his lips moves a bit. As a fellow person who doesn't have facial expressions, Geralt recognizes the very tiny twitch that serves as a smile for someone who doesn't smile. Dettlaff looks at the flower for a while, then back up at Geralt, and gives him a nod that's both a _you're welcome_ and a _thank you_. As Dettlaff walks out the front door, Geralt has a little smile twitch of his own as he sees Dettlaff gently stroke one of the bright petals the same way Geralt does. 

It's only when Dettlaff is out of the shop and down the street that Geralt realizes exactly what flower he handed him. Red chrysanthemum. Symbolizing _love and passion_. Fuck. Geralt slowly runs a hand over his face, and hopes one of the things he doesn't know about Dettlaff isn't that he's well versed in the meanings of flowers. 

The next day Geralt's still tired. He still feels the malaise. He still feels like he's in a heavy fog. He makes his tea and takes his morning walk along the beach, and though it drains him more than it should, things feel a little less difficult than they did yesterday. Then again, feeling better than the previous three days isn't a high bar to clear. It's another gym day, and Geralt tells himself he's skipping it again because he's got a lot of cleaning and packaging and product making to do around the shop, but he's always been good at knowing when he's bullshitting himself. He _is_ behind, though. He _is_ planning to do everything on his list of reasons - not excuses - plus fill and ship out some orders later. He feels like he has the energy to do those things, and doesn't add onto the end, _but just barely_. The mystery is still weighing heavily on his mind, and carrying it around feels like a physical effort. 

Geralt is tired and distracted enough that he cuts himself shaving. He doesn't usually go clean shaven, so he's not sure why he thought it'd be a good idea to put a blade to his face when he feels a little bit like death, but the summer weather keeps getting hotter and his beard was bothering him so he made a bad decision. By the time his hand slips he's half shaved and it looks stupid, but he doesn't trust himself to deal with the other half, so that means getting a barber to fix it. And that means going to Regis. 

Regis owns the barbershop on the north end of the main street, and knows a lot about plants. He comes into Geralt's shop every so often, and he's one of the friendliest customers. Regis does this thing where he buys a few items, then talks at Geralt for a while, then apologizes for rambling and bids him a good day and leaves before Geralt can get a word in edgewise. Geralt sometimes thinks about what it'd be like to have a real conversation with Regis. The thought is intimidating, because Regis is intelligent and sophisticated and seems to know at least a little bit about everything, not to mention that he's handsome in an eccentric middle aged way, but they have their interest in plants in common so at least Geralt can hold a conversation about those. Geralt's considered going to Regis's barbershop several times, but he'd feel awkward doing it, and that's how he knows he might be a little too interested in Regis. Either way, he hasn't left himself another good choice. 

It occurs to Geralt when he's turning off North Seagull Street that he probably should've checked the hours of the place before heading out looking like half his face got half-assedly attacked by something sharp. But he's already here, so the best way to do that is right in front of him. It's called _LA MARA_ , which are words Geralt doesn't understand in a language he doesn't know. As he's walking up to see whether the sign's on _OPEN_ or _CLOSED_ , the door swings open. It's sudden enough that Geralt startles. 

"Geralt!" Regis looks delighted to see him, which Geralt isn't used to. Other than Regis, it's been a couple years since anybody besides Ciri looked delighted at the sight of him. Which is because it's been a couple years since Yennefer rightfully got tired of him. "Come in, come in. I was just about to open. You're the first client of the day."

The barbershop's bigger than it looks from the window, probably because every time Geralt walks by it's always so crowded that it looks like there's no space left over. This is the first time Geralt's seen it empty. The place is pretty old school, black and white floor tiles and plush leather chairs and lots of dark wood, and it fits Regis well. So do his white collared shirt and black apron. Geralt feels less self conscious walking in than he'd expected - or, at least, less self conscious than he expected he'd feel walking up to Regis with half a beard. The bell over the shop door jingles loudly as it closes behind them, and Regis's brow furrows as soon as he turns to face Geralt. "Oh, my. Whatever happened to your face?" 

"I happened to it," Geralt admits. 

"And quite significantly so. May I?" Regis holds his hand up near Geralt's cheek, and when Geralt nods, Regis takes his chin and turns his face from side to side to examine it. Regis is the same height as Geralt, so they're at eye level; Geralt looks up and tries to focus on Regis's receding gray hairline instead of how he's being inspected. Regis makes little _hmm_ noises as he does so, and the whole thing makes Geralt feel uncomfortable in a good way, becoming a little too aware of his heartbeat and breathing at the way Regis's face is so close to his and his dark eyes are intently concentrated on him. He can see Regis piecing together the story: Geralt made an attempt at shaving the left side of his face, tried to go over it again to clean up the shitty job he did, and immediately sliced open the patch of skin next to his cheekbone. Regis gently lifts the bandaid Geralt stuck over the cut and looks at that too. "Well. I have just the thing to fix your beard, and this as well. Come with me." 

Geralt follows Regis to one of the chairs in the main area of the shop and sits down in it when he's gestured to. Regis shakes out a barber cape in a dramatic sweep, then drapes it around Geralt's front and smooths the top down in a way that makes Geralt's shoulders feel warm where he touched them. Geralt makes the mistake of looking in the mirror while Regis heads off into the back room, and immediately regrets it. He doesn't want to see himself right now, but the sight is unsettling and he can't look away. Geralt looks haggard and sickly, dark bags under his eyes and a gray tinge to his skin and the lines on his forehead deeper than they were a couple days ago. Even his long white hair is looking an unhealthy color - though it already was unhealthy, since hair's not supposed to go white overnight at thirty years old. Combine that with amber eyes so light they look yellow and a scar down the left side of his face where a switchblade slashed it open in an incident he lies to people about, and he's a walking recipe for a freak. He looks like even more of one than usual, like he's at least halfway dead. 

"Yes, here we are," Regis says from behind Geralt, and he jumps, so out of it he didn't even notice Regis was back. Regis stands in front of him with a small bottle, carefully pulling the bandaid off and then unscrewing the cap to dip a disposable brush into the bottle. "My apologies for startling you. And my apologies for what I'm about to do as well - liquid bandages tend to sting." Geralt lets out a nonchalant hum as Regis paints the stuff onto his cut, because he's had his kneecap shattered by a concrete sidewalk before so a little stinging is nothing. 

The worst part of it wouldn't be the stinging anyway. The worst part is trying not to show any reaction to this situation where yet again Regis is right in his face. Geralt can't remember the last time somebody managed to fluster him this easily just by being close to him. Probably Yennefer, and everything he felt about her worked out well for him until it really, really didn't. At some point it was Triss, his only other girlfriend; coincidentally she turned out to have dated Yennefer in high school, and they eventually reunited in a relationship that Yennefer assured him was purely a friendship until they started dating again right after Yennefer told Geralt she was divorcing him. So Geralt hasn't had a great track record with people who fluster him. His plants know the sordid details pretty well. 

"There we are. We'll give that a moment to dry. Completely waterproof and airtight, but I'll avoid that spot with the blade nonetheless." Regis tosses the brush into the bin under the nearby counter and screws the bottle cap shut, setting it down on the edge of the barber station. He looks carefully at Geralt again, and now that Geralt's been reminded of how ghastly he looks, he wishes his face could stop being visible. "Ignore me if you'd like, since frankly it's none of my business, I'm merely concerned - are you feeling alright? You look a bit pale." 

"Just tired," Geralt says. "Thus the..." He indicates his half a beard and sealed over cut. 

Regis makes a sympathetic noise as he reclines the chair, gesturing for Geralt to put his feet up on the stool at the end of it so he's nearly fully laying back. Geralt closes his eyes, already starting to relax at the gentle sound of the faucet as Regis washes his hands. He returns a moment later, retrieving a hot towel from the steamer beside the station. 

"You like plants," Geralt says, right before Regis wraps all of his face but his nose in the towel. He's glad to immediately have his face covered with it, and not just because the towel's warm and damp and smells like eucalyptus and it feels so good Geralt could stay under it forever. _You like plants_ isn't the smooth opening line he was hoping for. He had months to come up with something to say to Regis, and never settled on anything, so when he was put on the spot that's what came out. Not figuring out the right thing to say in time is a common theme in Geralt's life. Turns out he would've been better off not saying anything, especially because Regis probably would've started talking within the next ten seconds. 

When Regis removes the towel Geralt opens his eyes to see his face has lit up, and he's smiling. He rubs something onto Geralt's face that's cool and smells like cucumber and aloe, and Geralt's not sure if the first firm touch of Regis's hands will make him tense up, but it doesn't. He would think it's because he's adjusted to Regis touching him within the past couple minutes, except that it makes him feel safe in a way he can't explain. He closes his eyes again, and Regis starts talking. "Ah, yes. I do. I believe I've told you I'm a bit of a plant enthusiast - my knowledge is nothing compared to yours, of course, and my ability to apply it would pale in the face of a seasoned professional such as yourself - but I do enjoy studying the various uses of herbs and flowers and dabbling in gardening as a hobby." 

Geralt doesn't ask what the cucumber aloe stuff is, and soon enough, there's another towel on his face and one tucked into the neck of his cape and one folded in half on his chest. He's only had a real shave like this once in his life, on the morning of his wedding to Yennefer six years ago, and he'd forgotten how many towels there are. Regis keeps talking as he whips up a batch of shaving cream in a small wooden bowl, then takes off the current face towel to apply the lather to Geralt's face and neck with a round thick-bristled brush. Like he promised, he avoids the patch Geralt took the skin off of this morning. "As a matter of fact, I have been meaning to talk to you about your cypripedium nosferatus - or, vampire orchid, if you prefer the less tongue-twisting name. I have a great number of questions about it, and have never been able to find satisfactory answers through my own research. Not surprising, as there's been precious little written about the cypripedium nosferatus, which I assume is due to the fact that it's extremely rare and even more difficult to grow. And yet the one in your shop, according to the criteria laid out in what I've read, is perfect. Absolutely remarkable. In fact, it was just last month I was reading about the cypripedium nosferatus in _A Comprehensive History of Complicated Flora_ \- I'm sure you've read it cover to cover, but indulge me - and it said..." 

Geralt is so exhausted he slips into something like a relaxed trance as Regis goes into details of what he found in the book while methodically removing what's left of Geralt's beard with a straight razor. Regis has a soft and pleasant voice, and even if Geralt's not in the right place metally to follow all his complex tangents, it's nice to hear them. He vaguely wonders if he should be concerned by the guy running a blade over his face talking so much, but Regis seems to have mastered the art of doing it mostly when he's paused to wipe the shaving cream off the razor on the towel on Geralt's chest and not getting distracted otherwise. Regis doesn't push Geralt into conversation, but gives him spaces to contribute _hm_ s or _mhm_ s when he feels like it, and Geralt appreciates that. 

Between Regis's calming voice and the short and careful strokes of the razor, Regis's fingers expertly maneuvering and stretching parts of his skin as needed, Geralt goes further under until it leaves his mind that at some point he's going to get a blade put to his throat. If he can forget that, it says a lot about the condition he's in and the one Regis has coaxed him into. Regis talks about other flowers he found in the book until it leads him into describing various greenhouses he's visited, mainly in Temeria, and the best gardens to tour all across the Continent. The imagery of the plants and trees is soothing. At some point Regis puts another hot towel on Geralt's face and then re-lathers it and goes over it with the razor again, but Geralt can't pinpoint exactly when one shave turns into the other. Geralt finds himself so calm he loses awareness of how terrible he feels for the first time in days, too caught up in Regis's voice and ministrations. 

Geralt is in a near-meditation state when Regis finishes his careful and thorough work, fingers under Geralt's chin turning his head to look at both sides of his face. Regis brings him back into the real world with the gradual application of a cold towel to his face, and lets Geralt stay under it for a bit before using it to very gently make sure his face and neck are wiped completely clean. 

"There you are. I must say, you look very good," Regis tells Geralt after he lifts the towel off, sounding approving. Geralt's head still feels fuzzy as Regis pats an aftershave onto his cheeks that smells like bourbon, but the taps on his skin begin to clear the fog. Geralt wants to beg Regis not to do it as he removes all the towels and sits the chair up, to let him stay in that relaxed place a little longer. He briefly closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness that reminds him there's something wrong with him. He wants to go back to forgetting there's something wrong with him. 

"Well, what do you think?" Regis asks, and Geralt is forced to look at himself in the mirror again. The answer is, he looks as good as he's going to look in his condition. His face looks the cleanest it's looked in his life, and that includes his only other straight razor shave. Somehow, Regis managed to work around the liquid bandaged cut with perfect precision. For a second Geralt feels like he's back in a daze when Regis smiles at him and says, "You are very handsome, Geralt. Quite handsome indeed." 

When Geralt follows Regis up to the register, there's a cluster of guys out front that seem to be regulars chatting and enjoying the weather before heading inside. It's still strange to see the shop empty, but nice, since Geralt's not sure he could handle the usual crowd of clients and regulars hanging out. He wonders dimly how long he was in the chair, because he feels like it might've been a long time, but he couldn't make an actual guess with the way his sense of time is warped these days and he wasn't totally present for most of it. Geralt puts several bills on the counter, adding up to the price of the shave and a suspiciously large tip, then looks down at the patterns in the wood grain as Regis completes the transaction. He feels like maybe if he looks at Regis, he might not be able to look away from him again. 

"I'm sorry, it occurs to me I never actually got your advice on the cypripedium nosferatus," Regis says. Geralt looks back up at him anyway because it'd be rude not to, and finds him looking sheepish. "I may have gotten a bit carried away when given the opportunity to discuss Complicated Flora. And... with you." 

Geralt's mouth goes dry. The _with you_ is just because he's a plant guy, and he knows that's it, so he forces himself not to even think about reading any more into it. But he still finds himself saying, "Maybe I could come back and tell you about it. Week from today, same time - that good for you?" 

"Yes, perfect," Regis replies. "If you'd like, you can come in fifteen minutes earlier to give us a bit of extra time to discuss, but don't feel obligated - the choice is yours. Thank you for stopping by, Geralt. Have a lovely day, feel better, and I shall see you next week." 

Geralt feels a little bit like he's been hit in the head with something heavy while he walks back to his shop. He knows well what that feels like, because it's happened to him a couple times. He didn't have a full conversation with Regis like he'd been imagining, didn't even contribute anything to it, but it was perfect anyway. He's not in any state to keep up with somebody as knowledgeable and sharp as Regis, even when it comes to plants, not when Regis is already much more quick witted than him on a normal day. Listening to him talk in that comforting tone was exactly what Geralt needed today, even though he wouldn't have guessed that when he made his decision to get his fucked up beard fixed by somebody who actually knows what they're doing. He can try again next week. Maybe next week he'll either have a better opening line, or keep his mouth shut. And hopefully he'll be in better shape.

Something tells Geralt he's going to be thinking about his next visit to La Mara all week, but he snaps his focus away from Regis and back to the day ahead of him as he turns onto East Seagull Street and walks all the way to the end of it. He unlocks the door to his little shop on the corner, and steps back into his regular life. He has deliveries to receive, customers to assist, products to make, orders to fill, and plants to care for and discuss his barbershop visit with. And he has potions to attend to. One in particular. 

Geralt sticks exactly to his routine the next morning. He wakes up at dawn, makes a cup of tea, goes down to the beach, and strolls along it while listening to the seagulls and watching the way the gentle waves break frothy and white on the sand. He's always appreciated the seashore, noticing every detail and never taking its beauty for granted after a life spent in loud and dirty cities, but somehow his appreciation's gotten even deeper after several days of missing out on it or failing to pay close attention to it. The sun feels harsh and the warm air feels chillier than it should, but Geralt thinks he's probably imagining it. He's tired, but again better than yesterday. Definitely better than several days ago. He doesn't know why it took him so long to feel like himself again, but he's almost there. It feels like a very long time coming. 

The rest of the routine goes according to plan. Geralt goes up to the roof to check on the plants in the garden up there, and though the stairs feel steep, it's fine. He waters and nourishes and ensures the right sun level for the plants both outside and inside, straightens up the product displays, carefully arranges the potion shelves, and then goes into his lab. This is the part where he makes a little adjustment, though: today, just while he works in the lab, he leaves the shop door locked. 

There are a few potions simmering on the burners and steeping on the shelves. Tawny Owl, Full Moon, and Killer Whale are in their final stages. The Full Moon is just about done, and Geralt considers testing it and bottling it, but he's not sure he wants to ingest an alchemical substance right now. Because there's one more potion that's ready to test: White Raffard's Decoction. 

Geralt waited until he was nearly out of the bottles currently on the shelves, the ones he knows are fine, before starting on a new batch. He's been telling himself that it's only because he shouldn't be making a tricky potion when he isn't feeling totally like himself, but he's always been good at calling his own bullshit. Whenever he thought about brewing White Raffard's Decoction, his muscles got tense and his heart started beating a little faster and it was harder to breathe. But he's running out, and his store customers have been commenting on the low stock while his long-distance customers have been sending in orders he won't be able to fill. So he hit the point where he had to call his own bluff, and make more. 

It's a familiar process, one Geralt could do in his sleep despite how tricky it gets, so he kept his full concentration on all the details of each step and emotionally detached himself from it all. Got a bottle of Dwarven Spirit from the basement, methodically clipped some of the leaves from his ribleaf plant, took the fresh nekker hearts out of their cooler. Checked all the ingredients over multiple times, just to make sure. Got to work, just like he would with any other potion, or just like he would with this one before he tested that last batch. Didn't think about the way the strong smell he used to find comforting made his breath hitch a little. 

Geralt doesn't think about that now as he inspects the thick white liquid in its pot on the burner, the timer above it seconds away from hitting the zero. The reduction's complete, and it seems perfect. It looks right, it smells right, the consistency is right, everything about it is _right_. Or, at least, everything that he can tell about it without tasting it. But if everything else is right, it should taste right too. And if everything is right, then nothing bad should happen. 

That's what Geralt thought the last time, though. 

Geralt's knuckles are pale on the spoon he gets out of the cutlery container, and he squeezes the pipette too hard. He's always looked forward to the sight of the viscous potion on the spoon, anticipated trying it, knew it would put a little extra lightness in his step and looseness in his muscles for the rest of the day. That it would make everything feel a little bit better. He tries to tell himself that'll happen today too, because he knows how stupid he's being. Geralt doesn't get rattled like this, doesn't feel fear at pretty much anything except Ciri being in danger, since he's been through way too much shit in his life to get scared. So it's unreasonable to get this bent out of shape by his favorite potion, and he knows it. 

Geralt has been brewing White Raffard's Decoction for eighteen years. In that whole time, he's never had a bad experience with it once, not until last time. It's done nothing but help him. It keeps his aging body feeling youthful, brings back the vitality he feels slipping away a little more each year, eases the lingering pains of everything from work accidents to wear and tear to reminders of mistakes like the kneecap he broke at twenty during a run-in with people he never should've gotten mixed up with that still gets painful and swollen to this day. Nothing's a cure all, but if something came close, it'd be this stuff. Whatever happened last time is a strange unsolved mystery, but it's just that - a mystery. An exception. Not a certainty. 

Before he can change his mind, Geralt puts the spoon in his mouth. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and swallows down the White Raffard's Decoction.

Immediately, his whole body flares up with pain. 

Geralt gasps and wheezes for breath as cramps pierce through his abdomen in sharp pangs and all his muscles seize up. He stumbles toward the chair in the corner, trying to collapse into it or clutch onto it for support or have anything solid that might help him, but then it doesn't matter which. He's on the floor, nearly crying with the intensity of the agony rushing through his whole body as his stomach heaves and he vomits. He's burning up from the inside out, every fiber in his body being torn apart. He shakes so hard he's going to fall to pieces and cries out, clawing at the skin of his arms like he can rip it off and soothe everything beneath it. His insides are all twisting free of where they belong, innards writhing, and his ribs feel like they'll turn to ash from the fire in his chest. His head is thick and his brain is so heavy his neck can't support it, and he vomits again and again even though nothing is coming up and he's just doing something like sobbing. 

This time, Geralt can't get up from the floor. His body is fully gripped in the throes of the pain, and he thrashes and whimpers helplessly, unable to get free. His face and hair are soaked with sweat, and he clutches at his stomach to keep his guts from bursting free and spilling out onto the ground. He's dying. He's really dying this time, and there's no one to save him. No one will. No one _can_. He's dying. He's panicking, struggling, and then he's falling to the side and landing heavily and he has time for one more broken cry before his head pounds so aggressively his skull nearly cracks under the pressure and he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: chronic illness, descriptions of negative effects of potions, non-graphic vomiting, instances of panic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

It's two days before Geralt fully comes back to himself. He has vague snippets of memories, moments when he regained enough awareness to process what was happening but not for long enough to piece together a picture of those days. He remembers groaning and trembling on the lab floor, everything in his body sore. Waking up a couple times, still in the same place. Drinking a bottle of White Honey to clear toxins and Golden Oriole to neutralize poisons and Swallow to regain his lost strength. Waking up again, in the middle of the shop this time, and dry-heaving a few times before forcing the potions to stay down. Dragging himself up the stairs to his apartment, nearly losing himself to the dizziness every few steps, curling up on the floor at the top. Stripping off clothes dirty from floor dust and sweat and crawling into bed, ears ringing and darkness closing in on him fast. Hazily shaking with chills as fever blazed through his weak and helpless body. Stumbling around his dim and blurry apartment like a reanimated form. 

And then there's now. Waking up sprawled on his mattress with the blankets in a heap on the floor, his abdomen burning with the hollow ache of hunger and his head fogged and woozy and his sweat-soaked body drained of energy. Laying with his face in the pillow until his arms regain enough strength to push the rest of him into an unsteady sitting position against the wall. Listening to the calling of the seagulls and the crashing of sea waves on the shore. 

Geralt would be terrified if he wasn't so, so tired. 

The mystery gripped Geralt's mind in a burst of panic last time, frantic efforts to solve it gradually dulling into something low and simmering. Now, as he runs through the components of the White Raffard's Decoction and everything that could've gone wrong, he's just weary. All new ingredients, different batches than the first potion's, no less fresh. Different cookware, different burner, different cutlery. Everything different, except the recipe and the person making it. The recipe's been working perfectly for eighteen years and so has Geralt, so it seems pretty unlikely he'd get it wrong twice within five days. He's always had keen senses, further honed by decades of brewing, so if anything was wrong with the potion he should've been able to smell it or see it before tasting it. And he remembers it tasting right, though his memory gets a little unreliable at that point. 

Everything seems perfect, at every step of the process, right up until Geralt tries the potion and his body immediately goes through hell. Nothing is wrong, until everything is wrong. 

Geralt's post-potion recovery goes a lot more slowly than last time, and it's a lot more difficult. It takes him three hours to get out of bed and then he's back in it pretty quickly, spending two more hours lying curled up on his side with one arm wrapped around his belly and the other hand pressed to his mouth trying to keep down a cup of ginger chamomile tea and a piece of toast because he's already spent more than two days without nutrients and he won't get better if he keeps trying to subsist off water. He loses another two hours to racing thoughts, the obsession returning as it fully sinks in how little sense any of this makes. By the end of the spiral Geralt's run through so many possibilities for what could be happening that he's actually wondering if he developed an allergy to White Raffard's Decoction overnight, even though he hasn't become allergic to any of the ingredients and Golden Oriole should've taken care of any allergic reaction and no allergy he knows of would make him react like _that_ and there's never been reports of a White Raffard's Decoction allergy even existing. Nothing makes sense. Geralt is so ill, and it doesn't make sense. 

In the evening Geralt dredges up a brief spark of energy to drag himself down the stairs to his shop, clutching the banister with white-knuckled hands to keep himself from toppling the rest of the way down them headfirst, because if he doesn't then his plants will keep suffering and he can't let that happen. They've already gone thirsty for longer than most of them should've, and Geralt feels guilty enough about that without even thinking about the ones that are hungry or in need of more or less sun. He feels even guiltier when he has to skip visiting the ones on the roof, trusting nature to take care of them for one day more. His counter plant, the impossibly fickle aphelandra squarrosa that's not too pleased with the basic planter it got stuck in after Ciri's pot broke, looks as bad as Geralt feels. 

Geralt doesn't talk to the plants much as he cares for them, figuring his unpleasantly hoarse voice would bother them and his recap of the past few days would depress them, but he tries a little. He apologizes to them all one by one, using the names of the occasional one he's named, and promises them he'll never abandon them because it's important for them to know that. He slinks into his lab feeling terrible about drooping and wilted and browned leaves and petals, sensing the plants don't totally trust him. He can't blame them. 

Dumping the White Raffard's Decoction would be satisfying if it didn't make Geralt nervous to look at it and nauseous to smell it. He doesn't enjoy tossing out the other ruined potions that've been on burners or shelves too long, and not just because scraping congealed sludge out of pots isn't his idea of a good time. He can't afford to waste ingredients when he doesn't have the income from his most lucrative potion, and he can't afford to waste effort when caring for his plants and cleaning up his lab is enough to completely drain him. Paranoia makes him dump out the other two bottles of Dwarven Spirit from the batch he used in the traitorous potion, and it would've made him toss out the extra nekker heart and compost the rest of the bag of ribleaf clippings even if they weren't already past their prime. Geralt's certain there was nothing wrong with any of the ingredients, but it doesn't matter. The thought of causing any of his customers to go through the agony he experienced is horrifying. 

Geralt can't sell White Raffard's Decoction. Not until he knows it won't hurt anyone. And the thing is, that wouldn't be as big a problem with a different potion, even Maribor Forest or Swallow. White Raffard's Decoction is the worst one it could possibly be. It's his biggest driver of profits, by far. It's his signature potion. It's what he's known for. With how few White Raffard's Decoction brewers there are out there, Geralt was able to make the stuff the cornerstone of his business. There are customers who come to him for that potion, and that one alone, and would never buy it from anyone else. It's the potion Geralt had in mind when he named his shop, and the one that made starting this place possible at all. So not having White Raffard's Decoction is bad. It's one of Geralt's worst nightmares. 

Geralt can't even brew another batch of White Raffard's Decoction. At least, not yet. With the way he already can't trust himself, it seems like a bad idea to try concocting a tricky potion while he's still so sick from the last one. And he has a lot of work to do. He's going to need to do some serious research and testing before he tries making it again. Maybe if he digs deep enough, he'll be able to figure out what the hell is going on.

Or maybe he won't. 

There are plenty of other alchemists that make White Honey and Golden Oriole and Swallow, so Geralt settles himself on his lumpy sofa with his laptop and another piece of toast and orders a bottle of each from several different brewers. He winces both at the amount of money he's spending and at the glare from the computer screen, because the slightest bit of light worsens the ache in his head and eyes but he can't figure out how to turn the screen brightness down. It's necessary, though. Geralt needs to figure out if his versions of those potions aren't working specifically on him, for some reason. Or, worst case scenario, not working at all. He's afraid of what he might find out. And he knows that's probably the paranoia talking, but it still feels like a valid fear. Nothing about this situation makes any sense, so nothing's off the table. 

The beat up green notebook Geralt uses to keep track of Elixirs' business stuff, the one Ciri always shakes her head at before trying to show him computer programs that are too complicated for him, feels like it weighs several pounds when he picks it up off the coffee table and flips to the inventory tracker. The long line of stars marked in dull pencil next to items with stock running low looks like a path up a mountain. Judging by the numbers, a few of them would be cleaned out entirely if Geralt got through half his list of unfilled orders, which will get longer once he checks for the new ones that came in over the past few days. Geralt tries to picture himself replenishing the low-stock items: clipping herbs to refrigerate or dry, mixing spices and dried fruit into tea blends, starting the percolation process on tinctures, brewing one of his quicker potions. He pointedly ignores the White Raffard's Decoction line marked with multiple stars. 

Geralt's thinking that maybe by envisioning himself at work, he can compel himself to make those images a reality and mentally steel himself for the struggle that's going to be. He doesn't take time off work unless he's physically incapacitated, because he's spent his whole life with the mindset that being idle is giving up. Lazing around tightens the string on some underlying tension, the one conditioned into the teenage boy in beat up thrift store work boots who'd show up at a construction job site with a high grade fever or the young man who'd brew potions with cheap equipment and a broken arm because if he didn't make money then he wouldn't eat or have anywhere to live. The one that only got stronger when he had a daughter to put on a brave face for while thinking about how he'd do anything to keep her from going hungry. That tension, that anxiety, is harder to deal with than that mental struggle to gather his strength. 

And maybe some work would take Geralt's mind off the ominous feeling he's getting from the fact that nothing he's tried - medicines, potions, teas, herbal concoctions, vitamins, anything - has made much of a difference in the symptoms that have been plaguing him since the first episode. That idea motivates him enough to get down to his workshop and start the percolation of a few tinctures, but setting up the percolation cones, filling them with dried herbs and pouring solvent into them is enough to take the rest of his energy out of him and leave him taking four times as long as usual to pull himself up the stairs by the banister. 

Ciri calls a little while after Geralt gets in bed for the night, and he snaps himself out of his doze to answer his phone because she's too busy with her fancy job and big city life to call often. Ciri talks at him about a project she aced at work and an indie rock concert she scored VIP tickets for and an interesting part of the city she explored with some cool new photographer friends she's made, and it's nice. Despite how much Geralt misses her he struggles to follow along with the details, and he's glad he's not a conversational guy so she doesn't expect him to add more than a couple words and some reaction noises. He just enjoys the sound of his daughter's excited voice and how happy she seems with her fun adventures. Ciri wraps up the call by promising to visit soon, like she always does, even though they both know it'll be a while before she can get away. For once, that's fine with Geralt. He misses his daughter, but he can't let her visit while this mystery illness is messing his life up. And suddenly, Geralt realizes that's the worst part of all this. 

Geralt goes to sleep with the distinct awareness that when he wakes up, he'll have only two vials of White Raffard's Decoction left. Two vials from a safe batch, the last one he made before all this started. And once those are gone, that might be it. Those might be the last two vials of White Raffard's Decoction he ever has. 

By the time Geralt drags himself through the motions of reopening his shop three days later he's lost several pounds, developed anxiety, and gotten tangled up in the complicated minefield that is the White Raffard's Decoction trade. He's been subsisting mainly on tea and toast, doing fruitless potion research that spirals into disjointed racing thoughts, second-guessing the quality of every product he makes, fielding emails and phone calls from customers who want to check on their backlogged orders or place new ones to join the backlog, and waiting for any number of unknown things to go wrong at any moment. It hasn't been a good time. 

The White Raffard's Decoction shortage has led to Geralt pissing off several of his customers, because he tried too hard to help them when he should've known better. The White Raffard's Decoction market is a very fraught place, with complex internal politics and intense competition between brewers and die-hard loyalty from customers. Geralt tried to appease customers clamoring for the potion by offering to recommend them other trustworthy sellers or place an order for them, and it was a mistake. Every one of the very few alchemists that brew White Raffard's Decoction makes it just a tiny bit differently, and people develop such a taste for their specific alchemist's decoction that they'll reject anyone else's, sometimes going so far as to claim no other brewer's decoction works or call them swindlers. Geralt might as well have offered his customers a bag of shit in place of the potion, and he should've known how badly that would go over, but he wanted to help them get what they need and stop being upset at him and he's tired. 

If Geralt's being honest, there are a couple times he's thought he should recommend other sellers to _all_ of his customers. In the darkest depths of his overthinking and insecurity, he's wondered if maybe he's ruining every potion he makes and his satisfied customers are experiencing the placebo effect and he's become a snake oil salesman that's going to end up killing somebody with his mistakes. Geralt's not so far gone that he can't see that his thinking is irrational, but he also knows it's a fair question to ask. It's the same logic he keeps coming back to with that White Raffard's Decoction mystery: when nothing makes sense, nothing is off the table. 

Geralt's still not feeling well, but that doesn't matter. He's had Elixirs closed for five days now, and that's far too long. He's tried to open the shop every day, pushing himself through as much of his morning preparations as he can manage - minus the walk, which would be an obvious lost cause - but he's never made it to the final step. So Geralt's spent that time hating himself for admitting defeat, hating himself for getting soft with age, and hating himself for feebly shuffling around making simple products at half his usual speed and trying not to throw up soup and barely managing to water his plants. But the thing in Geralt's mind that gets tense when he doesn't power through his weakness has reached the point of snapping, and the feeling of being a frail almost middle aged man sitting on his sofa in a bathrobe and messy ponytail at three o'clock in the afternoon is more unbearable than the physical discomfort. 

So Geralt reopens Elixirs. He needs the money, because he can't afford to lose several days worth of store purchases without his White Raffard's Decoction income. He needs to stop feeling pitiful, because it makes him want to crawl out of his ashen pale skin. And he needs to be in the shop again. Geralt likes his shop. For the first fucking time in forever, he _likes_ where he is, and he wants to be there. 

Somehow, Geralt's not expecting it when the bell over the shop door jingles five minutes after he opens it and Dettlaff walks in. 

"Dettlaff," Geralt says. He'd probably be surprised, if he ever really got surprised. Dettlaff's otherworldly vibe is disconcerting, and there's something indefinable about him that makes him feel a lot more out of place in Duén Lara than being dressed in a heavy black coat covered with buckles during the summer ever could. Like maybe he would feel out of place anywhere. That's not a bad thing. Dettlaff's so handsome and so intense that it's hard to meet and hold his ice blue eyes, and his presence commands Geralt's full attention without him speaking a single word. Geralt would probably be intimidated by Dettlaff, if he ever really got intimidated. He's always been enraptured by dark and brooding people with unusual eyes. 

"Geralt." Dettlaff's carrying a red shopping bag with a rocking horse on it, and it looks like whatever's inside it is heavy. His boots clomp solidly as he walks to the front counter Geralt is sitting at, then takes the item out and sets it down next to the counter plant. It's a wooden box without a lid, made from a gorgeous cedar, and Geralt takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship. It's got a plastic liner with little drainage holes poked in the corners, and after a couple seconds, Geralt's illness-fogged brain puts things together. Dettlaff's looking at Geralt with that potent gaze, like he's expecting something, so Geralt makes a show of sizing up the box along with the aphelandra squarrosa. It's the perfect size for the plant, but with plenty of room for it to grow. Dettlaff watches him inspect them, then looks at the piece of ceramic Geralt stuck into the dirt in the sad white plastic pot. "Your daughter's name is Ciri?" 

"Yeah. Well, Cirilla, but I don't think I've ever called her that." Geralt runs his hand over the planter box, feeling the impeccably smooth finish. As someone who did construction for decades, he feels an affinity with its maker. Dettlaff's shop is known for handcrafted wooden toys, so Geralt figures it's a safe bet to ask, "You make this?" 

"Yes." Dettlaff's eyes are fixed on Geralt again when he looks back up. "I hope it's alright." 

"It's perfect," Geralt says. He never really gets surprised, but Dettlaff's managed to find a way to stun him. Geralt didn't expect Dettlaff to come back, let alone hand make him a planter box because he broke a pot that time he poisoned himself and made it Dettlaff's problem. He still hasn't gotten over what Dettlaff did for him that day, and probably never will. Dettlaff found a stranger unconscious on a shop floor covered in dirt and glass and open wounds, and it would've been easy to walk out and pretend he didn't see anything or call somebody else to help instead, but Dettlaff chose to pick him up and care for him. A gift being put on top of that rescue has Geralt at a total loss. He nods his approval emphatically, because he can't replant the aphelandra squarrosa on the spot but wants to make it clear he would. "Yeah. Good. Looks good. Really well made. Thanks." 

"I am glad you like it." Dettlaff looks at the planter box again, then nods to Geralt and turns to leave.

"Dettlaff," Geralt says, and it feels familiar, the strange combination of needing to give Dettlaff something and not wanting him to leave so soon. Dettlaff turns back to him, and the words come out of Geralt's mouth on their own. "I, uh. Got something for you." 

Geralt doesn't. At least, he doesn't have something picked out. He's thought a couple times about their second meeting, what other gifts he could've given Dettlaff, but never decided what would've been better than the unintentionally meaningful red chrysanthemum. It didn't seem like it'd matter, since Geralt figured Dettlaff wouldn't come back to see him, especially not with a present of his own. Tea has always made a good gift, in Geralt's experience, so he figures it's a safe choice now. The walk to the tea display is a serious effort, especially since Geralt's trying to hide the way he's unsteady on his feet and his head is spinning, but he makes it there without crumpling into a heap on the shop floor and selects a bag of tea to bring back to Dettlaff. It's one of his more unique teas, a green tea blend with a complex mixture of herbs that mainly features wolfberry, sweet verbena myrtle and hibiscus.

"Tea," Geralt says, holding the small burlap bag out. "This one's my favorite. Thought maybe you'd like it." 

"I will." Dettlaff unties the twine string holding the top of the bag shut and opens the packet of loose tea inside, breathing in the scent of the dried leaves and berries and petals. He looks back up at Geralt and carefully lifts the packet out of the bag. "Would you like to share some with me?" 

"Why not." Geralt gestures vaguely in the direction of the plant and its new cedar planter box. "Got an extra stool behind the counter. I'll go boil some water." 

Geralt drags himself up the stairs painfully, his leg muscles burning and his heart beating harder than it should be after only ten steps. The feeling is uncomfortable on a much deeper level than physical. He was in incredible shape for almost two and a half decades, toned and strong from construction work and intense workouts and a few marathons. He's still pretty fit, even with all the wear and tear on his aging body and lingering effects from injuries sustained both on and off job sites, and could keep up with most of the youngsters at the West Seagull Street gym. He almost never got sick. Even when he was injured, he managed to keep otherwise in peak condition. He's not used to feeling completely weak. And it fucks him up. The thing Geralt's always had the hardest time dealing with, one of his biggest fears, is feeling helpless. 

Upstairs in his apartment, Geralt leans on the edge of the kitchen sink for a minute to catch his balance before filling the electric kettle with enough water for two cups of tea and returning it to its stand to switch it on. As the water starts to simmer, he rummages in one of the upper cupboards for mugs. There's only two clean ones left. The place is getting messier by the day: unwashed dishes stacking up in the sink, dirty laundry piling up in the hamper, books and pens and assorted items scattered everywhere. He doesn't have the energy to deal with any of it. Geralt grabs the remaining mugs, a chipped University of Vengerberg one Ciri gave him and a glossy black one with red mist swirls that he can't remember where he got, and tries to process what's going on as he waits for the water to boil. 

Geralt didn't think Dettlaff would be the type to invite somebody for tea in their own shop, but he also doesn't know Dettlaff very well, so here they are. He hasn't hung out with anyone in at least a year, because he used to hang out with Yennefer and Ciri and his old construction crew and some horses but he lost all of them so close together that it felt like one fell swoop. And Dettlaff's a total wild card, so even if Geralt wasn't out of practice he wouldn't know how to handle this situation. Either way, he's going to have to figure it out, because it's happening. At least the nuanced flavor and bright color of this tea will be a nice change of pace from the ginger chamomile anti-nausea blend he's been drinking every morning, to inconsistent results. Geralt fills the mugs with just-below boiling water, quickly washes a tea infuser for each of them, and heads back downstairs. 

Dettlaff's pulled the extra stool to the other side of the counter and moved the planter box to the end of it, giving them both a comfortable amount of space. He's looking closely at the aphelandra squarrosa, and Geralt hopes his laser focused gaze doesn't wither it. Dettlaff looks up as Geralt sets the mugs down on the counter, then hands him the packet of tea. Geralt shakes some of the loose tea into each of the infusers, hoping his measuring-by-eye skills aren't thrown off by the way his vision is fuzzier than it should be, then carefully lowers one into each mug. "Steep that for about three minutes," Geralt says, then has to keep from groaning in relief as he sets his sore and tired body down on the stool. His bones are aching badly, and the quick trip up and down the stairs sapped pretty much all his energy out of him. He doesn't like feeling twice his age. 

It should feel weird, Geralt sipping tea next to the register in his shop with Dettlaff sitting across the counter from him in silence. Geralt's not sure if spontaneously inviting someone to drink a hot beverage with you in the middle of a retail location is a thing that happens in Duén Lara, or if it's just a Dettlaff thing, since the gloomy man doesn't seem to follow common social patterns. There's no good way to ask. So Geralt sits there and drinks his tea and lets Dettlaff decide whether to start a conversation, because Geralt's fine either way. He finds himself trying to act like he's not watching to see Dettlaff's reaction to the tea, like he's not anxious about whether or not Dettlaff will hate it, and like he's not relieved when Dettlaff's hypnotizing blue eyes spark and the corner of his mouth gives that tiny upwards twitch. Despite his morose aura, Dettlaff is starting to feel like good company. Dettlaff looks around the shop as he drinks, observing all the plants and herbs and teas and potions with the same concentration he seems to give everything. Geralt doesn't know how Dettlaff maintains that level of intensity all the time, but he admires it. The two of them reach the bottom of their mugs at the same time, and set them down on the counter in unison. 

"The plants are very well kept," Dettlaff says, finally. "Your shop is pleasant."

"Not a bad place to be," Geralt agrees. Something in him feels warm at the praise. "Maybe I should visit yours sometime. Haven't stopped into a lot of places in town." 

"Please do," Dettlaff says. He stands up and picks up the packet of wolfberry-sweet verbena myrtle-hibiscus green tea, returning it to its small burlap pouch and then placing it in his red shopping bag as if it's more breakable than the mugs they drank it out of. "Thank you for the tea." 

The bell over the door jingles as it shuts behind Dettlaff, and Geralt feels off balance for a reason that isn't related to his illness. Well, for an additional reason on top of the existing one. The energy in the shop shifted when Dettlaff came in, and it shifted again as soon as he left. It's like Dettlaff brings a little bit of his different dimension with him wherever he goes. 

Geralt thinks about it for a bit, looking at the empty black and red mist patterned mug. And eventually it occurs to him that the most otherworldly thing about Dettlaff isn't one of the obvious oddities: the grimness of his handsome face, the strange color of his icy eyes, the incongruity of his dark and heavy clothing, the potency of his gaze, the sheer intensity of his presence. Geralt's world is cold and callous, indifferent to an abandoned teenager sleeping in a dirty alley or a lost young man caught up in dangerous things on the wrong side of the law or an unprepared single father doing something he'd drink to forget about to keep the lights and heat on for his daughter. Geralt's world is harsh and unstable, beginning with hunger and bruises and shivering and continuing to prove that no one should be relied on and all are fundamentally alone. Geralt's world has forsaken him many times. So the most out of place thing about Dettlaff is that he chose to save and tenderly care for a stranger, for no other reason than to alleviate suffering. Unlike so many people throughout four long and painful decades, Dettlaff took care of Geralt. 

The next morning, Geralt almost forgets about the thing he expected to spend the whole week thinking about. He's sitting at his small clutter-covered kitchen table listlessly sipping yet another cup of ginger chamomile tea and trying not to notice his constant headache when it hits him that he's supposed to be at La Mara in - according to the clock hanging askew on the wall by his unmade bed - ten minutes. It's an eight minute walk. Geralt shoves himself up from the table with shaky arms, using a spark from an emergency energy reserve he didn't know he had, to do a slow and stiff scramble for clothes. He dumps the rest of his tea down the sink on his way to the dwindling stack of clean shirts on one side of the sofa, because he's starting to feel sick of the damn anti-nausea blend after drinking it every day for weeks and that defeats the point. 

It says a lot about the fucked up state of Geralt's life that he only thought about his upcoming visit to Regis's barbershop once or twice since he left it. It was a little hard to remember there's a world outside his small apartment and the shop below it, with the way he spent the whole week unconscious or sick or foggy or consumed by frustration and self-loathing and the mystery. He hasn't been able to go anywhere outdoors beside the roof, the sounds of breaking waves and seagull calls becoming solely white noise, so his world has shrunk. The fucked up state is visible on his body when he looks into the bathroom mirror while brushing his teeth and finds something ghoulish staring back at him. It looks just as tired and ill as Geralt feels, cobbled together from chalky pale skin and increasingly gaunt cheeks and unkempt hair and beard and dark under-eye circles despite how much he's been sleeping. There's something deeper, something abstract and difficult to place, that makes him look unwell from the inside out. It's haunting. Geralt is glad he doesn't have time to look at the ghoul in the mirror for more than a minute. 

By the time Geralt turns off North Seagull Street and reaches La Mara, he's used up the whole emergency energy reserve. A week ago, he'd been hoping that the next time he came to see Regis he'd be looking better. Today, that hope seems pathetically naive. Geralt's started to resign himself to the fact that everything might keep getting worse. 

"Geralt!" Regis sounds pleased when he opens the door to the barbershop, catching sight of Geralt's thirteen minute early arrival through the big front window and hurrying to let him in. There's a hint of surprise in his voice even though he's known for a whole week that Geralt was going to come in today. Geralt feels warm and something like bashful with Regis's full attention on him, and the feeling gets stronger when Regis meets his eyes and smiles. "Lovely to see you again. Come in, come in, we have much to discuss - and, I suppose, some barbering to accomplish." 

Geralt trails Regis into the shop like a lost puppy, following his black apron and grey hair over the dizzying checkerboard floor tiles until he's seated in the same cushy leather chair with a barber cape over him before he can catch up with what's happening. Letting his legs give out is a relief. Regis rests his hands on Geralt's shoulders as he studies him in the mirror, and Geralt tries to focus on the warm pressure instead of what Regis must be thinking about the ugly hollow-eyed thing in the glass. 

"So, Geralt - what are we doing to your face today?" Regis asks, which would be a concerning question coming from anyone but him. "Clean-shaven again?" 

"Sure," Geralt agrees. He can't muster up the ability to pay much attention. Regis could suggest giving him mutton chops like his own dramatic sideburns and he'd agree to it. He'd been hoping to have a real conversation with Regis about a deep topic that makes him sound smart, but that's another hope that's now seeming pathetically naive. He didn't know why he thought that'd be a thing that could happen in the first place, because he's not a smooth conversationalist even when he's not feeling like he's gradually withering towards death. 

"Excellent. You do look so handsome that way," Regis says, like it's a casual statement of fact, and reclines the chair. Geralt puts his feet up without needing to be directed, and it's nice to have gravity off them. 

As Regis washes his hands and fetches a hot towel from the steamer, he begins to talk again. "This morning I saw the most fascinating example of seagull foraging behavior. It was in the shallow waters near South Seagull Pier, where small fish tend to congregate. A seagull had a piece of bread in its beak, and was standing in one place dipping it repeatedly into the water. I suspect it may have been trying to use the bread to lure the fish close enough to catch without having to search for them itself. Curious, is it not?" 

"Yeah. Pretty curious," Geralt agrees. When he first got to Duén Lara, he thought it was strange how much the residents talk about seagulls. Sure, they're everywhere: flying overhead, covering the beach, hanging out in town, and walking down streets like they're people. They're considered town residents just as much as the humans, and they seem to have an agreement with the Duén Larans that as long as they're kept well-fed they won't divebomb anyone for their food or crash outdoor dining areas at restaurants. The town's name translates to _Place of the Seagull_ , and most of the important locations are named after them, from official buildings to long-standing landmarks to the main street and smaller side streets. Still, it seemed excessive to talk about birds as much as, or more than, the weather. But after a year of this specific local custom - and telling people that Elixirs is _all the way at the end of East Seagull Street_ \- Geralt has gotten used to it. "It catch anything?" 

"I'm not sure. I was just passing by. I will have to return another day and see if this innovation has caught on. Those seagulls really are devilishly cunning." Regis presses the hot towel onto Geralt's face, leaving only his nose unwrapped, and he lets out a pleased sigh. The steamy eucalyptus-scented cloth feels like it's cleansing something intangible from his skin. Regis's voice is comfortable, and Geralt wraps himself in it too. Even closed, his eyelids feel heavy. 

The Regis says, still holding the towel to Geralt's face. "I apologize for bothering you about this again - I understand I must seem nosy, but I'm asking from a place of concern - is everything alright? You appear rather pallid." Regis removes the towel, and the warm shop air feels cool on Geralt's damp skin. Geralt's trying to figure out how to answer when Regis's tendency not to let silences go unfilled for long mercifully kicks in. "I won't pry, worry not, but if I can help you with anything then just say the word and I shall do my best to assist. Ah, while we're on the topic of innovative seagulls..." 

Regis starts on a story about a time he saw a seagull try to use a plate, and then somehow drifts into philosophical musings because that's how trains of thought work with Regis. That passes the time it takes to rub some of the unknown cucumber aloe stuff onto Geralt's face and put two more towels on his torso. "Well, enough about me," Regis finally says, as if he hasn't spent the whole time talking about coastal birds and something he said _falls under the umbrella of epistemology_. "I would like to hear more about you, Geralt, if you're amenable to sharing. I have always wanted to ask, as you seem so passionate about your field - what sparked your interest in herbalism and alchemy?" 

"Uh." Geralt has a moment where he forgets his life story. But it doesn't matter when it comes back, because Regis doesn't actually want to know anything about Geralt's past. Nobody really asks him about it, which is good because he doesn't want to talk about it and nobody wants to hear about it. Regis thinks he wants to know about Geralt's life because he doesn't know enough about it to realize he doesn't. Yennefer was one of the only people who _actually_ wanted the full story, and her past was just as fucked up, so she got it. Ciri wanted it too, but there are a lot of things Geralt didn't and is never going to tell her. So Geralt skips the specifics and says, "Always liked plants. And if you mix them together and add heat, they do a lot. Taste good, make you feel good, cure illnesses, save lives. Pretty impressive things, plants." 

It's all true, but it feels disingenuous to say it. It seems hypocritical for Geralt to imply his potions can cure illnesses and save lives when they gave him an illness they can't cure that's fucking up his life. 

"Fascinating! I love hearing people's stories about how they entered their professions," Regis says, like Geralt told him some dramatic saga instead of _I like plants and they do cool stuff, which is striking him as a pretty stupid answer now that it's come out of his mouth_. Regis wraps him in another towel, and Geralt thinks this is the best way to work up to having a real conversation with the intimidatingly intelligent barber: starting out in a situation where he can keep getting his face hidden after he says something embarrassing. By the time Regis finishes whipping up the shaving cream lather, Geralt's almost ready to show his face again. "Every person's story is unique. What ignited their passion, what they enjoy about their field, perhaps what forced them to overcome the fact that they have no passion and _don't_ enjoy their field, whether it was a lifelong dream or a recent development, what they might prefer to be doing instead, whether their job is a family trade..." 

Regis lifts the towel off and looks at Geralt with an open curiosity on his face, hoping to prompt an answer. With most other people Geralt would probably grunt in response, but Regis is regarding him with a genuine interest that Geralt's not used to getting from people. Nobody's very interested in him, and he can't imagine why they would be.

"Not a family trade," Geralt says, because the last question is the only one he remembers. Geralt doesn't know what his father did, knows nothing about him except that he abandoned his girlfriend and their broken-condom kid when Geralt was two years old, since his mom called him _that piece of shit_ whenever she talked about him and wouldn't tell Geralt his real name. As far as he knew, his mom - though she hated when Geralt called her _Mom_ \- didn't have a job, just lived off the friends and strange men she left Geralt home alone for days to go see. Or maybe she had a job he didn't know about, or made money in ways she didn't tell him about. He didn't know much about her life. "Don't think plants are my daughter's thing." 

"Ah, you're a father. You have my admiration." Regis smiles. "How old is your daughter?" 

"Ciri's, uh..." Geralt mind blanks out again for a second. Shit, he must be really tired if he's forgetting Ciri's age. He usually remembers hers off the top of his head, and uses it to do the math on his own. He mutters through it now, working backwards. "Adopted her twelve and a half years ago, she was about to turn twelve... twenty four. She's twenty four." 

"Twenty four, the golden years of youth. I hardly remember being so young. Three decades will turn the steel trap of a youngster's mind into a bit of a sieve." Regis's tone is wistful, but good-naturedly self-deprecating. He uses the same large bristled brush to lather up Geralt's face and neck. "Ciri, that's a lovely name. You adopted her when she was nearly twelve?" 

Geralt waits until the shaving cream is applied to avoid getting it in his mouth before answering. "Yeah. Had these friends, some stuff happened and..." He trails off, not sure why he's saying so much. Regis has a way of asking the right questions. Doesn't mean Geralt needs to make things awkward for him by giving full answers, though. "I ended up with their kid." 

Regis doesn't seem fazed by the terrible explanation. "Ah, I see. Did you raise her by yourself?"

Geralt hums in assent. "At first. Met my ex-wife a couple years after I adopted Ciri."

"Raising a young teenage girl by yourself - my admiration only grows. I've been told those are difficult years to navigate for both teenage girls and their parental figures, particularly single fathers. But if her father is any indication, I'm sure that she's grown into a wonderful young woman." Regis leans over Geralt and pulls the skin of his left cheek taut, beginning to shave away at the whiskers with short and careful strokes. He pauses every so often to wipe the flat of the straight razor clean on the towel on Geralt's chest, and it's not long before he lengthens one of the breaks with chatter. "You're somewhat new in town, relatively speaking - arrivals are not entirely uncommon, but most local families have resided here for several generations, many tracing back to Duén Lara's founding. If I may ask, where did you move here from?" 

Geralt waits until Regis has finished his cheek to answer, not wanting to move his face around too much while a blade keeps returning to it. "Vengerberg." 

"I've always meant to visit Vengerberg. A friend of mine told me it's quite lively and a treat to explore, especially in temperate weather. She assured me that its reputation as a shopping destination extended to bookshops." Regis gets started on clearing the hair from Geralt's chin, keeping the motions of the razor quick and steady. "Are you from Vengerberg originally?" 

"Yen - uh, my ex-wife is." Geralt's saying too much again. Especially about Yennefer. That wound's still too fresh and too much his fault. If anybody asks he just tells them he's not married, and keeps the _divorced_ part as a personal point of shame. A reminder of the three lives he splintered with his mistakes. This is the first time since the divorce that he's told anyone about Yennefer. "I'm from Rivia." 

"Ah, yes, of course. Rivia." Regis says it like something very important has just made sense. "I thought your accent didn't sound quite Vengerbergian, but as I couldn't place it, I thought it best not to embarrass myself by making guesses." 

Regis finishes up on Geralt's chin, and Geralt's surprised by how good it feels. How relaxing it is. During his first straight razor shave he was painfully tense, ready to spring at the barber at any second, because the other time a man took a knife to his face it didn't end well. He has the long jagged scar down his forehead and cheek to prove it, and he's lucky to have his left eye. But Geralt gritted his teeth through the shave, because Yen wanted him looking perfect in their wedding photos and she deserved that for being willing to marry him. It occurs to him how strange it is that he didn't have any real reservations about Regis shaving him the first time. He figured it was because his first shave went fine so his brain didn't register another as a threat, but the thought of anyone but Regis putting something sharp on his face certainly doesn't relax him. It makes him want to tense up again. So maybe Geralt trusts Regis a lot more than he realized. 

"I've visited Rivia, but briefly," Regis reminisces, while he moves to Geralt's other side and gently repositions his head for better access to his right cheek. "I believe it was seven years ago, perhaps eight. I stopped in the City of Rivia on my way to Dol Blathanna, and had the most wonderful french onion soup at a little diner there - Trackside Diner. I still remember the name, so good was the soup. The cook wouldn't give me the recipe, as it was highly proprietary and understandably so, but I must admit that a fair few times I've tried to reconstruct it in my own kitchen." 

"I know that place. Good place," Geralt says. He practically grew up there. The woman who owned it was named Nenneke, and she kept an eye out for Geralt when he was young. She let him hang out in a booth in the back of the diner when he got locked out of his apartment or his mom was on a drug bender or in the kind of mood that would lead to him getting hit. A half hour of washing dishes in the kitchen, and Nenneke would give him a meal. Geralt struck that deal with her when he was twelve and got tired of stealing bread and apples from the corner store or going hungry when his mom didn't pick feeding her kid over feeding her addiction. Geralt came to understand, many years later, that addiction is a disease that can make that choice feel like it's not a choice. The diner closed five years ago, but Geralt doesn't have the heart to tell Regis that. 

"I'm from Dillingen. I've moved around quite a bit, but tended to keep finding myself back in Dillingen. That is, until moving to Duén Lara - I cannot imagine myself leaving," Regis says. He begins to shave the right side of Geralt's face, fingers carefully pulling and stretching the skin. "While I never had children, I did have quite a few pet birds. Ravens, mostly. And at one point I had a significant number of bats." 

Geralt raises an eyebrow and then quickly lowers it, figuring it's not a good idea to move any part of his face more than necessary. "Didn't know those could be pets."

"Oh, yes. They're fascinating and intelligent creatures, and if you're willing to put in the work to care for them, they're capable of very interesting interactions. Ah - the ravens, that is. Perhaps you meant the bats?" Regis finishes Geralt's right cheek and wipes the razor clean on the towel again, then gazes into the distance. Geralt's started to recognize what it looks like when Regis is reminiscing. "The bats were not pets so much as a gift of chance. Bats are not at all suited to be pets, nor should they be treated as pets in the conventional sense. To properly keep a bat you must have a very large enclosure, several more bats, and a willingness to provide strenuous upkeep for creatures that will mostly ignore you. But Dillingen had no one who was prepared to care for orphaned baby bats, and as I was the one that stumbled across them, I took the responsibility upon myself." 

Geralt keeps quiet until Regis clears the area between his nose and upper lip, partially because Regis is pushing his nose up and pulling his lip down and partially because he can't figure out if it'd be a compliment or insult to say _you seem like the kind of person that'd adopt bats_. But Regis's pleased smile tells Geralt he picked the right answer when he says, "You have my admiration too." 

"Did you deal in potions and plants and assorted herbal products in Vengerberg?" Regis moves the straight razor to the vulnerable area just under Geralt's jaw, resting on the skin over his jugular vein, and Geralt has to force himself not to tense up on instinct. He thought he was fine with every part of the shave, considering it didn't bother him last time and it felt good until now, but last time he was so out of it he wasn't really aware of what was happening. He's a lot more conscious of the knife now. Regis's voice is warm when he continues, "I recall you saying during our first meeting that you had never had an alchemist-herbalist shop before - which I apologize for not stopping into in a while, I am constantly intending to and then my schedule gets the better of me - but you did not clarify whether you were referring to a physical location, or any sort of business." 

Geralt concentrates on Regis's voice as the razor glides along the skin above his carotid artery, trying not to think about how aware he's suddenly become of his pulse, and remembers that the kind barber did this to him before and it was fine. Regis is good at what he does, and Regis doesn't want to hurt him. Geralt trusts Regis. 

"Construction," Geralt says when Regis pauses to wipe off the razor, letting out the breath he's been holding and hoping it doesn't sound too much like relief. He's surprised Regis remembers the first time he came into Elixirs. Geralt remembers it, remembers the way Regis foraged through the place until he could barely carry everything he'd picked up and then treated Geralt to a ten minute monologue, but he didn't figure Regis would. "Built houses. And worked at a stable about an hour outside the city." 

"Horse stable, I presume? Horses, another example of fascinating and intelligent creatures that are interesting to interact with and difficult to care for. Rewarding, though, as I understand it." Regis's blade works its way through the lather of shaving cream on Geralt's neck and throat with practiced precision, and Geralt holds his breath again. Thinking about horses is calming, so Geralt pictures the soft eyes and velvety nose of a brown mare and reminds himself that it's Regis's hands on the knife until it begins to feel like a routine occurrence again. "Going from construction and equine care to alchemy and herbalism must be quite a change. Moving from Vengerberg to Duén Lara, no less! I hope you've been finding the town to your liking?" 

"Yeah," Geralt says, once his throat is shaved clean. He lifts his heavy eyelids for a moment, taking in the dignified dark wood and early morning stillness of the barbershop around him, then looks up into Regis's soft black eyes. "Like it a lot." 

"I have never met a single soul who did not like Duén Lara," Regis says, smiling down at him in a way Geralt would call fond if he didn't know better. "I hope it does, or soon will, feel like your home." 

And Geralt's not sure yet, doesn't know what it'd be like for a place to feel like home to him when the only thing that's ever truly felt like home is his daughter, but he finds himself saying, "Yeah. Think maybe it could." 

It surprises Geralt, how much he's saying. And what he's saying. And that he doesn't mind saying it. Regis has somehow gotten him to say more about himself in one and a half shaves than he's said to anyone in a long time, and it's probably the fastest he's opened up to anybody but Ciri. Even faster than Yennefer. Regis got him to open up without feeling intruded upon, and that's a big feat, since Geralt constantly feels intruded upon and never opens up to anyone. He was relieved that the friendly small town people didn't ask him too much about himself and accepted him brushing off their questions with vague answers. He doesn't like telling anyone anything that reveals too much, and almost everything feels like too much. But Geralt's told Regis much more than he ever expected to, and much more than Regis realizes. 

Regis feels like somebody Geralt can talk to. Maybe because when they barely knew each other, Regis made Geralt feel like they already did. 

"Stories of this kind are a reciprocal exchange, so I'll tell you how I want into barbering and medicine - ah, I don't think I ever mentioned I was in medicine. Well, that would be relevant background knowledge for the story," Regis says, then puts another hot towel on Geralt's face as he goes to rinse the razor off. Geralt breathes in the eucalyptus and tries to handle the thought of Regis, the handsome and intelligent barber, caring for ailing patients and orphaned baby bats. He's almost come to terms with it by the time the man himself returns to remove the towel and lather up his face with the big bristled brush again. Regis works steadily and efficiently, starting with the left side of Geralt's face and shaving mainly against the grain. Regis makes a noise that sounds like the beginning of a sentence, then cuts it off. "That is, if you'd like to hear the story. My apologies, I do seem to impose my musings upon you quite often." 

"Mhm," Geralt grunts, without moving his face. He does want to hear it. And it's lucky the circumstances are making him keep his mouth shut, because otherwise he might say, _I like it when you talk_. 

"Have you ever been to Dillingen, Geralt? I am aware it's unlikely, as it's relatively unknown and there's no reason to visit it, and I've never met a non-Dillingener that has stepped foot in the place, but perhaps one day someone will surprise me." Regis waits until Geralt makes a _mm-mn_ noise of dissent, then chuckles. "Yes, I figured as much. If you would believe it, Dillingen is even smaller than Duén Lara, and far more rural. So rural that most Dillingeners have multiple professions, as otherwise they would be constantly driving three hours away to fulfill everyday needs. There is a long and proud tradition of barbers also serving in a medical capacity, and as fate would have it, I became part of this lineage. But not simply through adherence to history, mind you - it was a long and winding road." 

"Mhm," Geralt grunts again, to show he's still listening. 

"I mentioned I moved out of Dillingen on several occasions. I was young and foolish during many of them. And as young people are wont to do, I made mistakes. At times, quite serious ones." Regis's voice has taken on its reminiscing tone again, a note of something distant in it, but his concentration is fully present as he gently stretches Geralt's chin to shave it perfectly smooth. "I came to deeply regret my mistakes, and I realized the only way off the selfish and reprehensible path I had gone down was to find a purpose in helping people. Though I continued to work as a barber, a profession I did truly enjoy, I gravitated towards medicine. There, I thought, I could do some good in the world." 

The story is familiar to Geralt. Making mistakes, going down dark paths, regretting it, finding some peace in a trade profession, aspiring to heal others, going into medicine. Change some details, keep the basic storyline, and it could be Geralt's story. Geralt hadn't thought he and Regis were anything alike. It didn't seem like they could be. Regis is friendly and talkative and intelligent and good with people and successful, and Geralt is standoffish and quiet and dull and gruff and struggling. It's a little bit of a revelation, finding out they do have some things in common. Regis is still better than Geralt in pretty much every possible way, but there's something nice about knowing they walked the same kind of road. 

"Mhm," Geralt grunts, and doesn't feel the blade when Regis runs it over his throat. 

"The later stages of the story are, luckily, less bleak than the buildup. After apprenticing with several veteran doctors and healers around the Continent, I returned to Dillingen. As it is so rural, the closest professional medical assistance was hours away from the town, and unaffordable for most of the people who live there. So I reopened my barbershop and took on the additional mantle of healer." Regis still has the knife somewhere that Geralt should be afraid of, but he's not. His voice still has its gentle and soothing quality when he concludes the story. "Healing was fulfilling, but a heavy responsibility to bear, and so I was not devastated when Duén Lara did not require my services in a medical capacity. I am grateful for the chance I had in Dillingen, but I don't mind being able to give someone a trim and a shave without being interrupted to perform a tuberculosis examination or clean and stitch a wound." 

Geralt gets what it is about Regis that makes people open up. It's not just that he asks the right questions and listens the right way - he's more than willing to share in return. Share a lot. Definitely more than Geralt ever would. Regis isn't afraid to expose deeply personal things about himself, if it means building trust. Geralt doesn't know how someone can be that brave. 

"Good story," Geralt finally says, after Regis finishes up the second round of shaving and wipes the razor clean on the towel on his chest for the final time. He opens his eyes slowly, locks gazes with Regis again, and feels a strange tugging feeling that he can't explain. He feels like he should say more than that, after everything Regis told him, but he can't. Whatever words he had are gone. 

"Ah, is it?" Regis smiles sheepishly. "I'll be honest - well, I suppose that goes without saying, after the deeply personal content of my narrative - I don't usually tell my clients so much about myself. Or, in perhaps more accurate terms, talk at them about myself. Certainly I don't recite my biography in such detail, particularly the parts that are less than flattering. And I will confess, I find myself a bit embarrassed at having done so now - being known is a mortifying ordeal indeed. But there is something about you, Geralt, that inspires trust. And I suppose that, because I find you quite fascinating, it's only fair to tell you about my life if I'm going to probe into yours." 

Geralt gets overwhelmed with the strange shy feeling again, and wishes Regis would put a towel on his face. It's all too much. Regis opening up to him more than most people, Regis thinking there's something trustworthy about him, and that part with the _fascinating_. 

"Not too much fascinating about my life," Geralt mumbles.

Regis smiles softly. "I didn't say it was only your life I find fascinating." 

Geralt's skin tingles where Regis touches it as the barber takes his chin in his hands and turns his face from side to side. Geralt closes his eyes again while he's being inspected. Regis must be satisfied he's done a thorough job, because he wraps Geralt's head in a cold towel and makes sure the shaving cream is fully washed off before exposing his face to the air again and patting that enticing bourbon aftershave on. Geralt knows that means this experience is close to over, and he finds himself wishing that a third round of shaving would catch on. Or that Regis will realize there's a few towels left in the world that he hasn't put on Geralt's face, and decide to do that. Anything that stretches this out a little longer. 

But Regis has a business to run, and spending all day keeping Geralt away from the pain of the outside world isn't going to keep the lights on. Geralt's not the only person in Regis's world, and it's a strange and jarring feeling to realize he wishes that, just for a couple more hours, he was. He shuts the thought down immediately. Geralt never wishes things like that. And it's a good thing he doesn't, because a wish like that would never come true. Not for him. 

Geralt struggles to lift his eyelids, and then finds himself face to face with Regis again. Regis looks deeper into his eyes, and then smiles. "My apologies, you must get this often, but your eyes are absolutely stunning." 

Geralt doesn't get that often. Far from it. People seem to find the yellow irises and misshapen pupils eerie and unsettling. Maybe they'd find the eyes stunning on someone else, but not Geralt. Growing up, Geralt got called a freak and told he looked mutated and accused of creeping people out when he looked at them. Even his mom told him she didn't know why he had such deformed eyes. He knows now it's probably a birth defect, but back then, he felt like something unnatural. Yennefer was the first person, when he was thirty two years old, to tell him they were beautiful. Before that the only person who'd ever said something positive about them was Ciri, on the day he unexpectedly got custody of her. She inspected her new guardian between crying fits and said, _your eyes are weird. you look like a cat. they're cool_. So Geralt has no idea how to respond to Regis. Compliments on his eyes aren't something he ever needs a response for.

"And your shave has been a success," Regis says, snapping Geralt out of his daze, "so I will disentangle you from your assortment of towels, and then you are free to go." 

A group of guys has gathered out front to smoke and chat by the time Regis has guided Geralt back to the front. Geralt pays and leaves another suspiciously large tip, then finds himself lingering at the counter. He feels like there's something else he should be saying to Regis after the conversation they just had, but he can't think of what it might be. Whatever it is, it's something else he never needs to figure out how to say. And it feels like there'd be something oddly intimate about saying it here, just the two of them alone in the barbershop, after Regis has spent an unknown amount of time touching Geralt's face and smiling at him. It doesn't mean anything, because Regis is a barber, and that's what barbers do - but. Geralt definitely didn't feel _that_ way about the shave he got from that first barber on the morning of his wedding. 

Finally Geralt settles on, "Thanks for the shave." 

"Always a pleasure," Regis replies, with that warm look that Geralt now craves. 

"And for... checking on me," Geralt adds. His voice sounds wrong, the pause is too long, and the words feel like an ill-fitting pair of shoes he hasn't broken in. Regis makes him say so many things he never thought he'd need to say.

"Always a pleasure," Regis says again, smiling. "Come back any time. I mean it, Geralt - any time at all." 

The shop door closes behind Geralt, bell jingling, and he doesn't notice the _good morning_ s the men out front give him. That feeling is back, the one that's like being hit in the head with something. And it's not until he's nearly back home at the end of East Seagull Street that Geralt realizes they never talked about that vampire orchid.

The orders for White Raffard's Decoction keep coming in. So do the requests from customers who come into Elixirs and want to know where it is, why Geralt doesn't have it, and when he'll have more. Geralt doesn't know what to tell them. The answers are _fucking nowhere_ , _because it's fucked_ , and _I don't fucking know_ , which aren't the kind of things Geralt should be saying to the people who keep him in business. So he gives them apologies and vague bullshit instead of explanations, and the way he never commits to anything or provides real information makes it clear he's brushing them off, but they're too polite to call him out on it. Which is good, because the most accurate answer would be the worst thing he could say to a customer: _I can't sell the potion I made because it might cause somebody the worst misery they've experienced in their life_.

Geralt's plants are getting tired of hearing him mutter those answers under his breath as soon as the person who asked the questions is out of earshot. He can tell by the slight curl and browning on the very tips of some of their leaves. He knows he needs to talk positively to them for their health, that he can't use a negative tone around them, and those leaves remind him of it. Too much negativity could spell certain death for the pickiest ones among them. But sometimes using a positive voice gets tough, and the only reason he can manage it is because he can't subject his plants to the kind of misery he's feeling. 

The tiny kitchen table in Geralt's messy apartment above the shop is covered in empty bottles and vials now, little containers of all shapes and sizes that held the White Honey and Golden Oriole and Swallow potions he spent too much money buying from other alchemists. He's tried them all, looking for answers and solutions. Whether he was getting something wrong in his own potions that was negating their effects, despite all evidence and reasoning to the contrary. Whether his own potions weren't working on him, for inexplicable reasons, but someone else's would. Whether _they_ could fix him. But the other alchemists' potions didn't taste different, look different, or smell different than Geralt's. And they had no effect on him either. He laughed bitterly as he threw the last of the empty bottles against his kitchen wall and turned away from the smashed glass, feeling stupid for thinking there was even the slightest chance one of them could cure him.

The shards of the broken bottle are still there on the floor next to Geralt's mini-fridge. He hasn't cleaned them up. 

The whole expensive experiment soothes one of Geralt's worries, at least. He knows he's not making any mistakes in his own Swallow or Golden Oriole or White Honey, selling the liquid form of the placebo effect without realizing. So he feels better about his potion making skills, and more secure in what he's providing to his customers. That's a good thing, even if it's the only thing. Geralt figures that answer is the most he's going to get out of the ongoing experiment, and decides it's done. He stops wasting his own potions on himself, and wasting his money on other people's. He accepts that there's no quick and easy brew to fix him. 

Geralt misses going on walks. He misses going to the gym. He hates spending so much time inside because he can't bring himself to go anywhere else. He hates that he's forgetting what it was like to just _live_. 

Medicine isn't helping any more than potions are. Pills, herbs, chemicals, flowers, tablets, tinctures, doesn't matter. They all turn out to be pointless. Nothing's getting rid of the headache that never goes away, temporarily subsiding at best. Nothing's dispelling the constant vague nausea that spikes at random moments, which would keep him from eating properly even if he had an appetite. Nothing's relieving the weariness and ache in his bones and muscles, the exhaustion that sinks into the level below them. Nothing's clearing up the haze in his mind that makes it impossible to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes. Nothing's freeing him from the way he always feels off balance, even between dizzy spells. He decides to stop bothering with those experiments too. 

Some days are better. Some days are worse. But that's what life's always been like for Geralt, so he keeps going. He's never given himself another choice. 

Geralt finally closes online ordering and refunds everything on his long list of unfilled orders with apologetic emails. He's prepared to get angry emails in return, if that's how people want to take out their frustration about his customer service, but he's not prepared for the amount of money he sends back. He'd known it'd be much more than he wanted to send back, but he hadn't done the math on it first, and he can't tell if it's the illness or the actual number he finally tallies up that sends him into a bout of dizziness where it's hard to breathe. It's Geralt's only option, though. He can barely brew enough potions and make enough tinctures and dry enough herbs and blend enough teas to fill Elixirs's physical shelves. The thinning stock is becoming more obvious among the decreasing number of plants for sale; Geralt's been ordering less of them, not confident he can care for them if they're not sold right away. He wonders when people will start asking about the increasingly sparse displays, and he'll have to come up with bullshit to say instead of _I'm fucking exhausted_. 

A seagull got into the shop the other day and tried to knock over a tea display. Geralt had to shoo it out with a broom as it squawked angrily at him, probably threatening to tell all its seagull buddies to shit on his doorstep. That's the most excitement and activity Geralt has had in days. 

Looking at the messy ledger in the beat up green notebook makes Geralt anxious. He keeps track of good numbers like profits and sales in black pen, bad numbers like expenses and losses in red pen, and he can tell things are heading in an ugly direction by the way he's using the black pen less and the red pen more. Sales and profits took a big hit when Geralt ran out of White Raffard's Decoction, and then another one each time he closed Elixirs for several days. He can't estimate the full impact of closing online orders, but he knows it's going to be bad. The outflux of money from all the refunds was bad enough. Geralt had been doing well so far, since potions are lucrative despite the component costs and herbal products are also a good return on investment, but the economics are only relevant if he's actually making sales. Geralt knew a small business wouldn't get him rich, that there might be times he'd be steps away from closing or destitution, and he thought he was prepared for that. But he's finding out that it'd fucking tear him apart.

The plants on the roof seem like they're starting to feel betrayed, since Geralt doesn't sit up there and spend as much time with them as he used to. The sun makes him too hot too quickly and then he gets nauseous, but light breezes have him shivering. He tries to endure it for their sake, but they don't appreciate his negative energy either. 

Every time Geralt does the usual addition and subtraction on the increasingly crumpled and scrawled and tea-stained pages of the ledger, the amount of money he has left to live on shrinks. And that declining number sets Geralt's mind spiraling into the depths of a familiar discomfort. He doesn't need much, and he's used to having much less, sometimes almost nothing, but that's the problem. He remembers what it's like to have almost nothing, to scramble and hustle and hurt to keep having _something_ , and watching himself drift back towards that place fucks him up. There's a part of the human brain, something instinct-driven and primal, that panics at scarcity. And Geralt's is being jolted hard, because he _remembers_ it. 

One of Geralt's pringrape plants is sick. He brought it up to his apartment one night and sat with it in his arms on the sofa, amid the rumpled piles of laundry. He talked to it about random things and asked for its help with crossword puzzle clues and told it the story of the first time he ever saw the ocean. He talked to it for hours even when his gravelly voice got painfully raspy and hoarse, trying to take its mind off its condition. Like maybe a distraction would help. Like maybe it'd feel better commiserating with someone who could relate. 

Ciri calls one night, and talks at Geralt again. She tells him about the great evaluation she got from her boss after another project she aced, and how she got a salary raise without even asking for it. She goes into more detail about the new friends she mentioned making during their last call, and she sounds suspiciously bubbly and starry-eyed when she talks about a girl named Cerys, but also says they just met last week so Geralt doesn't pry. She says she'll send him photos from more events she's gone to, more places she's explored, and more adventures she's had. Geralt asks Ciri how to turn the screen brightness on his laptop down, and she makes fun of him for not understanding technology despite only being forty years old before telling him that the button is on his keyboard right under his nose. As usual, Ciri promises to visit soon, and they both know she won't. Geralt is again grateful that his daughter can't come see him, and that breaks his heart. 

It feels like things could go back to normal, sometimes. Like if Geralt just figures out what's wrong with his potion and what's wrong with him then it'd be like a snap of his fingers, and suddenly he could fix everything. Overnight he could be brewing White Raffard's Decoction every day, filling every order anyone could throw at him, working out in the gym for hours, and walking the entire length of the Continent along the shore. Like there's a clear and definitive answer to all his questions out there, one single lightbulb moment that explains everything, and if he can stumble upon it during his frequent research then everything could be solved in one fell swoop. 

But sometimes, it feels like things will never get fixed. Like Geralt will never figure out the problem with his potion and the problem with his body and he'll take the combined mystery to his grave. Gradually, he'll give up on ever brewing White Raffard's Decoction again, make less of his products until he's not making anything, close his shop more and then one day decide to never open it back up, and grow so sick that his body fails. Geralt could solve everything, maybe. And Geralt could also lose everything, bit by bit. 

Geralt is resilient, and he's paranoid. He's tough, and he's anxious. He's determined, and he's pessimistic. He can no longer tell how many of his fears are founded, how much of his hope is justified, what he should dream of, and what he should give up on. He can no longer trust his mind, and soon he might trust it even less than he trusts his body. 

Things could go back to normal, maybe. But maybe Geralt needs to start thinking of this as normal. Because, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, it really might be.

It takes Geralt longer than he'd hoped to make it to Dettlaff's toy shop. It's been a rough couple days. He considers wasting another afternoon break telling his plants stories they've already heard five times and skimming articles in The Seagull Times, but the constant fatigue and malaise are a little less incapacitating than they've been for a while so it's probably the best time to go. And Geralt needs to get out. He's still missing his daily walks, and he doesn't even remember what his gym schedule was anymore. It's been a while since Dettlaff came by, and Geralt wants to stop in and see the place. Doesn't hurt that _the place_ includes Dettlaff. 

Dettlaff's toy shop is on East Seagull Avenue, off the east side of North Seagull Street about a two minute walk from where La Mara is off the west side of it. The red door is almost hidden, but Geralt can tell from the distance between it and the clothing boutique next door that there's a good amount of space. The paint on the hanging sign outside is faded, a white rocking horse on top of the same red as the door, and there's no name anywhere that Geralt can see. He's never heard anyone refer to it by name, just _the toy shop_. The front is shadowy despite the blazing sun, and the heavy door creaks loudly when Geralt pushes it open. 

Geralt had trouble picturing Dettlaff running a toy shop, but once he's inside it, he can see how it'd work. The place is dim and ominous, the only light coming from two small windows on the side wall and the display furnishings all made from dark materials. It feels like it belongs somewhere much different than the sunny seashore of Duén Lara, just like Dettlaff himself, and if Geralt doesn't think about the nearby waves breaking on sand then it feels like he's walked over the threshold of a dimension into a gothic village on the edge of a creepy forest. But it smells of fresh wood and there's a wide variety of high-end toys on the tall and looming shelves, most either wooden or plush and all seeming to be handmade. Geralt's the only person in the shop besides the owner himself, which adds to the eerie atmosphere, but it's a relief. He wouldn't want to deal with the presence of anybody else right now. 

"These are nice. You make everything in here, right?" Geralt asks Dettlaff, studying the items on the shelf closest to the door. It's a little chaotic, an assortment of carved wood figurines and brightly painted boxes and soft toys all put on it in no apparent order, but it's eye-catching. 

"Yes," Dettlaff says, from his position several feet away behind the front counter. "I make toys, and I repair them." 

Geralt looks over to the register and sees there's a small workbench behind it, so Dettlaff can work on projects throughout the day. There's a teddy bear on top of it, its soft fabric thin and worn out with stuffing leaking out of a half ripped off arm and an eye coming loose. Dettlaff has a needle and thread in hand, and is working on another rip between the bear's ear and its head. Something about the way Dettlaff gently runs his thumb over the ear and closely examines it before pushing the needle in for the first stitch makes Geralt feel warm. Dettlaff gives damaged teddy bears the same focus he gives ailing people. Geralt forces away the sudden strange thought that he'd want to be that bear. Instead he says, "Mind if I look around?" 

"Please do," Dettlaff replies. He looks up at Geralt and gives him one of his intense gazes, his icy blue eyes nearly sending Geralt stumbling over nothing, before turning back to his slow methodical stitching of the bear's torn ear. 

Geralt wanders between the shelves in the low light, looking at the wares. There are puzzles painted with dreamy landscapes, little storage boxes and bigger chests with complex engravings, vibrantly colored mobiles to be hung over a baby's crib. Rocking horses with sturdy legs and yarn manes, ball-jointed marionettes, soft cloth rag dolls in fabric dresses. There are art pieces as well, unsettling charcoal drawings of shadowy figures and more mythical pastel landscape paintings. Music boxes with carved lids that hide songs Geralt would love to hear, but he's too afraid to disturb the stillness that feels like a haze throughout the shop. More things than one person should be able to be so good at making. 

Geralt circles back around to the front without realizing he's heading there until he reaches the display closest to Dettlaff. There are handmade plush animals lined up neatly on the shelves, and the order looks strange when the rest of the shop is a haphazard mess with stuff stuck wherever there's space for it. There are bears, dogs, rabbits, a cat, and a cow. The stitching is tight and even, and Geralt finds himself running a finger over a rabbit's head to feel its soft fur. It's clear they were made by somebody who cared a lot about making them perfect. Geralt looks at the adorable animals for a bit, thinking about how Dettlaff must've worked on them for hours. Something tugs in his chest picturing Dettlaff sitting down and crafting the rabbit with his usual concentration and care. Geralt wants to pick it up, but despite the way it's squishy and flexible he feels like he'd somehow break it. He's not used to holding things like that. 

Finally Geralt turns away from the plush animals and spots a small table with a bunch of little carved and painted wood figurines, giraffes and elephants and hippos and horses. One in particular catches Geralt's eye, and there's something so familiar about it that the thing in Geralt's chest tugs again in a very different way. He picks up the tiny horse and cups it carefully in his palm to make sure it doesn't fall, and doesn't bother looking for a price. It doesn't matter. 

Geralt brings the horse figurine up to the counter and sets it down next to the register. Dettlaff has sewed the bear's ear securely to its head and moved on to the half torn off arm. He finishes his last few stitches on the bear's shoulder and snips the rest of the thread off with tiny scissors before smoothing its fur down and turning to Geralt. Geralt is distracted by how tenderly Dettlaff stroked the teddy bear, like it's a real animal in need of comfort, and his voice sounds strange when he says, "Horse. Gonna buy it." 

Dettlaff studies the small carving as if he's re-inspecting his own handiwork. "Do you like horses?" 

"Yeah," Geralt says. Dettlaff looks up at him, then keeps looking like he's expecting that either Geralt will say something else or whatever he might say will become visible in his eyes. Geralt's usual nervous reflex is to clam up, keep his mouth shut, but this time he finds words tumbling out of it. "Used to work at a stable. There was this horse born on my first day there. She wouldn't let anyone but me groom her or tack her up. Didn't like anyone else riding her, either. Caused everyone but me so much trouble they started calling her my horse. She looked a lot like this one." 

"What was her name?" Dettlaff asks. There's still not much of a tone in his low voice, but with how concentrated he is on Geralt, it feels like he's genuinely interested in the answer. Geralt's not used to that. Ciri knows Geralt too well to look at him with anything close to fascination, and towards the end of their marriage Yennefer clearly wanted to know Geralt a lot less well than she did. The only people who have made Geralt feel like this in years, like he might have something really interesting to say, are Dettlaff and Regis. 

Geralt doesn't actually have anything interesting to say, and he knows he doesn't, but he finds more words coming out anyway. "Roach. Like the fish. She died a little over a year ago. Looked just like that, though. Brown, white marking on her nose." 

"I see," Dettlaff says, and Geralt feels like he means it. Like Dettlaff really does see Geralt. Geralt ducks his head, because it makes him uncomfortable to feel seen. But Dettlaff makes him feel uncomfortable in the same way Regis does: a good way. Geralt doesn't know what's going on, but suddenly he's stumbling into conversations with handsome men who are good listeners and he doesn't know what to do about it. The answer is probably to say less, because the more he says the more they're going to realize they don't want to listen to him and for once he actually _doesn't_ want people to stop prying and go away. So Geralt doesn't say anything, and finally Dettlaff says, "It's hot outside. I'll get water." 

Geralt nods at Dettlaff's departing back, eyes fixing on the short curls partially hidden by his coat's high collar. And it's lucky that Dettlaff decided to head into a back room, because as soon as he's gone, Geralt's hit with a dizzy spell. He clutches at the counter, almost knocking over mini-Roach, but it's not enough. There's a sturdy rocking chair nearby, and Geralt's not sure if he's supposed to be sitting in it, but he trips over his own feet until he's in it because it'll probably be less inconvenient for Dettlaff to find him passed out in a chair than on a shop floor yet again. He sits there with his eyes closed and breathes until Dettlaff comes back, trying his best to stay conscious by concentrating on the mantra _fuck, please, not now_. 

It could be minutes or hours before Dettlaff's voice says, "Geralt." 

Geralt cracks his eyes open, trying not to look too woozy as Dettlaff's blurry form comes into focus. Dettlaff is holding out a glass of ice water and and Geralt takes it with a shaky hand, trying not to spill any of it. His grip on it is a little weird, with the way his head's still spinning, but he manages to get it to his lips and take a sip. He closes his eyes again.

"Are you feeling alright?" Dettlaff asks. 

"Yeah. Just hot," Geralt replies, and takes another sip of water. He can hear something heavy being dragged over, and then a soft creaking as a weight settles in it when Dettlaff sits down with him. It's nice. Dettlaff's good company.

It's familiar and comfortable, the two of them sitting in an empty shop sipping their drinks in silence. It's natural from the beginning. The toy shop feels like a place out of time, things flowing differently in the still and shadowed world Geralt stepped over the threshold into, and he lets them wash over him at whatever pace they come. The birds outside sound like crows, and the steady roll of the waves like the rustling of trees. Dettlaff's dimension is foreign, like no place Geralt has ever been, but he's read about places like it in legends and with Dettlaff beside him it feels like somewhere he could comfortably stay. 

Geralt opens his eyes when he's getting close to the bottom of the glass. Between the rest and the ice water, the dizzy spell has passed. He shifts his long hair over his shoulder to let the air cool his neck down, wishing he'd put it up in a full ponytail instead of his usual half one. It really is hot out, and summer is dawning on them fast. 

"I had a cat," Dettlaff says, after a while. 

"What was your cat's name?" Geralt asks, then connects the dots with the pet conversation earlier. 

"Moth," Dettlaff replies. 

"Cute." Geralt drains the last of his water, tipping an ice cube into his mouth to suck on it. "I like cats. They don't like me, though. Never met one that didn't hiss or run away before I could get anywhere near it." 

"I can't imagine why," Dettlaff says. And because he's figuring out that Dettlaff never jokes or uses sarcasm or says anything he doesn't mean, Geralt feels like he's been absolved of some worry about himself he didn't realize he had. 

When both of their glasses are empty, Dettlaff says, "The tea was better. Perhaps we should drink tea together again." 

"Yeah. We should," Geralt agrees. He could use some tea that's not the same damn ginger chamomile or the peppermint fennel licorice root blend he's added into his daily routine for some variety. He didn't go out a whole lot before this illness started and has barely gone out since, but he gets the sense that he should suggest going somewhere together. "There's a cafe on South Seagull Street, right? Seashells or something. Could go there." 

"Yes." Dettlaff is looking intently at Geralt, and Geralt falters under that gaze. "Perhaps next Monday." 

"Monday's good," Geralt says, and then is surprised that Dettlaff actually accepted his offer. He gets hit with a sudden paranoia that Dettlaff might regret it, that he might think about it a little harder and realize that going somewhere to hang out with Geralt is a lot more commitment than a quick drink in a shop and decide he doesn't want to get stuck spending that much time with someone who's so bad at holding conversations. He thinks about adding _don't have to though_.

Dettlaff speaks again before Geralt can give him an out. "Yes. Perhaps at this same time." 

"Sounds good." Geralt hopes next Monday will be good. It's a week off, so he can't even guess. With the way things have been going lately, he can't guarantee anything. Can't guarantee he'll even be able to get out of bed. But he wants to go somewhere with Dettlaff - it surprises him how much he wants to go, since he rarely wants to go anywhere with anyone - so he'll manage it. He made Dettlaff a promise, and he'll keep it. After a life of hard labor, frequent injuries, painful sacrifices and constant obstacles, he's used to pushing through difficult circumstances to please someone else. 

That is, if Dettlaff's actually pleased. Hopefully, for both of their sakes, he won't end up wishing Geralt had stayed home. 

Geralt stands up and puts his empty water glass on the front counter, wiping the condensation off the bottom of it with the edge of his shirt first so it won't leave a ring on the wood. Dettlaff joins him on the other side of it, setting his glass next to Geralt's. Geralt looks down at the small wooden horse, the brown one with the white marking on its nose, the one that's so familiar it aches. He knows he'll be willing to pay way too much for a little Roach carved and painted by Dettlaff. He's going soft. But he asks anyway, "How much do I owe you for Ro - the horse?" 

"She's yours," Dettlaff says, and places mini-Roach into Geralt's palm while looking so deeply into his eyes that Geralt forgets to protest. And Geralt loses all coherent thoughts entirely when Dettlaff wraps Geralt's fingers around mini-Roach, enclosing the small horse in Geralt's hand and enveloping Geralt's hand in his own big and strong and callused one. "I look forward to Monday." 

Outside the toy shop's heavy red door, back in the world of seagulls and sunlight, it occurs to Geralt that he might've just asked Dettlaff on a date. He doesn't know if it's a date, and he doesn't know if Dettlaff thinks it's a date, and he doesn't know if he wants it to be a date, and he doesn't know if Dettlaff wants it to be a date. He doesn't even know what a date is anymore. He doesn't know anything. 

Geralt hasn't dated in eight years. That was when he was starting his relationship with Yennefer, and it was a whole marriage and a whole divorce ago. They didn't date like a normal couple anyway, skipped the courtship rituals and went straight to fucking and absorbing each other's trauma until they would do anything for each other. And Geralt never dated Triss normally either; they ended up getting together way too fast, clinging to each other in a storm to keep from drowning and acting like they were married until they accepted that they were pulling each other down. Somewhere along the way, during those dark pre-Ciri times, there were a few others. Iorveth made a good ally with benefits until they realized they were getting less toxic and developing more emotional vulnerability with each other and broke it off immediately. Roche could've been something like a partner, but then they ended up on opposite sides of something Geralt didn't even want to be involved in. Shani was too good for him and so Geralt pushed her away before they could find out what they could've had. 

So Geralt doesn't know how to date. He's never had a normal relationship before. And he's never had anything that didn't leave him badly hurting. 

And Geralt's getting ahead of himself. He's getting caught up in ridiculous hypotheticals that wouldn't have any chance of playing out. This isn't anything like him. Geralt doesn't _do_ this, this thing with the hypotheticals, so he doesn't know what the hell is happening and why he's doing it now. And he should go back to not doing it, because even if he did ask Dettlaff on a date and Dettlaff accepted, there's no way Dettlaff would want an actual relationship with Geralt. No one would. And they shouldn't. So Geralt needs to stop doing this - _thing_ , the thing he never does. 

Back at Elixirs, Geralt sets mini-Roach on the counter next to the cedar planter, and looks at them both together for a long moment. And he lets himself have one more uncharacteristic hypothetical. If this thing with Dettlaff did end up being a date, and Dettlaff wanted it to be, then. Geralt would want it to be too. 

It takes Geralt a while to get back to La Mara, with the way halfway running his business is twice as hard as operating at full capacity used to be, but finally walking into the barbershop feels like sitting down in a comfortable chair. He goes in early on Friday morning, trying to push away the awkwardness and nerves that have returned at the thought of seeing Regis. Geralt's head is aching and his limbs feel heavy and his balance is off and his stomach doesn't feel right, but it's the best day he's had in a while - or, the least awful - so it seems like a good time to go in. He was able to take a short and slow walk this morning, and last night he ate an actual dinner for the first time in weeks, so that gives him a bit of hope. Geralt knows he's the first person in, because he catches Regis just finishing up flipping the sign in the window to _OPEN_. 

"Geralt! What a lovely surprise!" Regis seems genuinely caught off guard, like it wasn't inevitable that Geralt would show up sooner or later. As if Geralt could stay away from him for long. "Make yourself comfortable in your usual chair, and I will be with you shortly - there's something I must handle, but worry not, it won't take long."

Geralt follows the instructions, the nerves melting into something warm at the thought of having a _usual chair_. Like Regis thinks of him as a fixture here, not just the weird plants guy who stumbled in with half a beard and no social skills and then kept coming back. Geralt doesn't look at himself in the mirror this time, since he knows what he'll see and he knows he won't like it. He's been avoiding mirrors a lot lately, because his grey skin and stringy hair and hollow cheeks and glazed over pupils aren't pleasant. Instead Geralt fixes his eyes on his hands in his lap, because that solves the problem of what to do with both of them. 

"Thank you for your patience," Regis says from right behind him, and Geralt startles. He must really be losing his mind if he didn't catch Regis approaching. He should've been on alert from the sound of the barber's footsteps or the herb garden-like scent of his cologne, or the strange sixth sense he's always had that lets him pick up on things that normal people can't. Regis gently touches Geralt's back as an apology, then shakes out a barber cape with a dramatic flourish and drapes it around him. "So, how shall we enhance your handsome face today? Another clean shave?" 

"Maybe not the whole thing, just do some pruning," Geralt says. He's hit with immediate embarrassment when he realizes that in his confusion over the _handsome_ thing he missed the word for what barbers do to hair with grooming tools, and landed on the one for what gardeners do to shrubs with hedge clippers. "Trimming." 

"My pleasure," Regis says. He does that thing again where he stands behind Geralt with his hands on his shoulders and looks him over in the mirror. If he's repulsed by the way Geralt's still looking ghoulish at worst and haggard at best, he doesn't show it. Instead, he slips one of his hands under the back of Geralt's long white hair and holds the bottom of the frayed strands between his fingers. "Shall I trim your ends as well? Not too short, I promise. I would merely snip off the dead hair - the split and dry bits, nothing to mourn - which stops just above your shoulders." 

The way Regis's fingers feel in Geralt's hair makes a convincing argument. Regis offers him a quick "may I?" and waits for a nod before he carefully slides off the elastic band holding the frizzy mess back from Geralt's face in a half ponytail, slowly enough for Geralt to tell him to stop if he wants him to. Once the tie is off, Regis hands it to Geralt and then runs his fingertips over Geralt's hair from the hairline just above his forehead to the uneven ends between his shoulder blades. Geralt has to suppress a pleasant shiver at the warm and tingly feeling all over his scalp, his constantly tight muscles starting to loosen. He's been ignoring whatever's happening on his head for a long time, letting it grow as long and disheveled as it wants as long as he can keep it out of his face, but within a couple seconds his philosophy has turned around. 

"Sure. Could use a trim," Geralt replies. 

"Wonderful." Regis squeezes his shoulder, and Geralt feels dazed. "Come with me." 

Regis guides Geralt to the far end of the shop, past a few other cushioned leather chairs at their dark wood stations, and Geralt gets dizzy looking at the moving floor tiles. He doesn't question where they're going, since he'd probably follow Regis anywhere right now, but it turns out to be a reclined chair in front of a sink. Geralt doesn't understand why they're there until Regis invites him to sit in it with a sweeping gesture, and Geralt looks between the neck rest and the faucet and puts it together. He sets himself down on the chair, scooting around awkwardly to get his head in the right place, and gets a pleased smile from Regis that he's not sure what he did to deserve.

Geralt didn't expect to end up in front of a sink. He figured Regis would just do some quick snipping and then move on to his beard, but if the barber wants to wash his hair then Geralt won't complain. Though Regis probably doesn't want to, and he's just being forced to waste time doing it because he thinks Geralt's hair is gross and doesn't want to touch it the way it is. Geralt can't blame him. He hasn't been doing a great job of cleaning it since this whole thing with the potion started, going too far between washes and sometimes failing to fully rinse the shampoo out on really bad days. It's not doing much to help his overall bedraggled look. Geralt sinks down in the chair, thinking that he wouldn't have made Regis cut his hair if he knew it was going to be such a pain in the ass for him.

Regis rummages through a nearby cabinet and emerges with three dark glass bottles, talking partly to himself and partly to Geralt as he sets them down on the counter beside the sink. "Nourishing formula, designed to restore nutrients and draw in hydration. Yes, that's the one. You have lovely hair, Geralt, but it's lost its luster. A bit of shampoo, conditioner, moisturizing treatment, and we'll have it luxuriously soft and shiny - and, most critically, on its way back to health. Does that sound alright?" 

"Hm," Geralt says in agreement, because he doesn't care about luster or shine or whatever else the stuff is supposed to do, but if Regis thinks it's good then it must be good. "Why not." 

"Though, despite the efficacy of my array of proprietary mixtures and concoctions, I must admit that the greatest balm for languishing hair is not in this cabinet at all. That would be a combination of replenishing rest, a sufficiently nutritious diet, and sufficient water intake. Hair will always reflect the condition of the body upon which it grows." Regis brushes a few tousled white strands out of Geralt's face, and the gentleness of it has Geralt struggling to keep his face from flushing. "I promised you that I wouldn't pry, and I truly won't, simply remind you that my offer to assist you with anything you may need still stands." 

And maybe Geralt's throat closes up a little, at the way Regis says it. Like it's a statement of fact, and nothing more than that. He doesn't push Geralt into saying anything, doesn't force him to answer any questions, doesn't impose any judgements on him. Geralt knows Regis is just a kind person, the type of guy who would help anybody, a natural healer, so he shouldn't read anything into it. But if he didn't know all that, he'd think it sounds like Regis _cares_ about him. 

"Well. Let me know if everything is alright, or if you require adjustments. Perhaps the water temperature, or the level of pressure - I do tend to be a bit vigorous with my washes, but I believe that enthusiasm is the best way to get a proper lather." Regis turns on the faucet, and the water is perfect. It's hot like Geralt likes it, but not hot enough to scald. He lets out a _hm_ of approval. It's alright. And the barber's gentle hands gathering his hair up under the water to rinse it are more than alright. Regis starts to work the herbal scented shampoo into the wet strands with firm and quick fingers, and Geralt doesn't realize he's sighing in pleasure until it's already happening. He freezes up, because he doesn't know if the noise was weird or creeped Regis out. 

Regis lets out a soft endeared chuckle. "I'll take that as an expression of satisfaction with my current method of approach and proceed accordingly." 

It's strange, because Geralt doesn't let people do this. He doesn't let people touch his hair. It's one of his favorite things, but only when it's being done by someone he really, really trusts. He always felt safe and comforted when Yennefer washed his hair for him, or when Ciri brushed it out and braided it like she insisted on doing every night when she was younger - Geralt knew becoming a dad had changed him when he started letting her put ribbons and bows in his hair on weekends if they weren't going anywhere. But he felt equally threatened by a stranger sticking their hands in his hair, and growled at the hairdressers Yennefer used to make him go to if they tried to do anything more than snipping gingerly at his hair while touching it as little as possible. And yet Geralt didn't question it when Regis first ran his fingers through it, or when he took the elastic tie out and stroked it, despite Regis providing multiple opportunities for him to stop him. Geralt has just now remembered to consider being bothered by it, and he's not. In fact, he could probably let Regis do this forever. 

"And now the conditioner," Regis says. Geralt's not sure when he rinsed the shampoo out, but it doesn't matter as soon as he starts to work in the thicker but equally pleasantly scented liquid. Geralt drifts into a partial meditative state, one where he can feel everything happening and enjoy it with a mind free of thoughts. It's bliss. For a few minutes, he's warm and floating and nothing exists but the chair and the water and the heavenly fingers. 

"Ah, splendid. I can see the improvement already." Regis's voice brings Geralt back up to the surface as he rinses the viscous substance out. Geralt's surprised to discover that he can feel the difference. It's been a while since he used conditioner. He'd squeezed the few remaining drops out of the last bottle Yennefer got him on the night they had the talk about when he'd move out of their apartment and where he'd go, and never bought another one. It'd always felt like a luxury Yen treated him to, nothing important, and now he's gone back to using the cheapest shampoo he can find just like he did before he met her. Yen always brought stuff home for him and told him how obvious it was that nobody actually raised him, so he never learned to pick products out for himself. But feeling the change in his hair, Geralt remembers why he liked conditioner. And he thinks maybe he should use it again. 

"What's that stuff?" Geralt murmurs drowsily when Regis opens the last of the three red bottles. 

"A moisturizing hair mask," Regis explains, squeezing a generous amount into his palm. "You may recall I mentioned deficiencies in luster and hydration - this should help to repair that. And, if you're not averse to it, I will apply it alongside a scalp massage. People underestimate the importance of proper blood flow to the scalp, sadly to their detriment, but from this day forth you shall not." 

"Mhm. Good," Geralt mumbles. 

All it takes is the application of the hair mask, and Geralt drifts out again. The meditation is deeper this time, and a little bit more of his consciousness is taken. The bliss is back, and so is the pleasant emptiness. Regis's hands guide him through it, gentle and perfect. And Geralt feels something he's not used to feeling, something he hadn't felt for a few years before that fateful day Dettlaff picked him up off the shop floor and wiped him clean - cared for. 

Regis doesn't talk after that. It's the first time he's been quiet since Geralt's met him. Geralt enjoys the soothing sound of his voice, but he appreciates the barber letting him float in silence. He's not easy to read, has even had plenty of people tell him they thought he didn't have emotions, but it seems like Regis might've figured him out. He doesn't know if that should concern him. Usually Geralt has a hard time being around people like Regis, people who talk constantly - even worse, talk to him - but Regis is different. The calmness Geralt feels when Regis touches his hair or runs a blade over his throat makes that pretty clear. It seems like it happened fast, but it might've been a long time coming. Maybe since Regis came in the door of Elixirs a year ago, introduced himself, gathered an armful of plants and teas and potions, complimented Geralt on his selection of products, and then started talking at him about the local fish and the history of Geralt's storefront and the merits of bonsai trees. Geralt can admit he liked Regis right away, but he never considered whether he'd end up trusting him. And now, a year later, he trusts Regis. Trusts him a lot.

Regis rinses the hair mask out of Geralt's hair after an indeterminate time, then wraps a towel around it and gently squeezes the water out. He pulls the towel down to drape over Geralt's neck and shoulders, and then gives the wet strands one last gentle stroke to smooth them out before sitting up the pliable thing that Geralt's softened into. Geralt very slowly opens his eyes, the eyelids so heavy it feels like lifting weights, and hopes he's not looking at Regis like he could tell him he loves him. 

Geralt trails Regis back to the barber station in a daze, more oozing onto the chair than sitting in it, and nods immediately when Regis says "may I?" even though he's not paying attention to what Regis is asking about. Regis removes the towel and begins to massage Geralt's neck and shoulders, starting out slowly and gently to see if he likes it before adding more pressure and confidence. Geralt sighs again, and his eyes drop shut as he somehow manages to get even more limp beneath Regis's talented hands. The barber knows exactly what to do, where to squeeze and where to knead, working out all the tension Geralt's built up over several weeks of pounding headaches and stiff muscles and debilitating nausea and full-body exhaustion. It's exactly what Geralt needs after the misery he's been through. Someone to understand his pain and touch him kindly. 

By the time Regis is done, Geralt is fully melted. All his limbs are loose and his shoulders are slumped and he would probably fall asleep in the chair if he didn't want more of this. The touching, the understanding, and Regis. 

"There. Your muscles were in knots, but I believe I have unsnarled them, so to speak." Regis gives Geralt's shoulders one last squeeze. "How are you feeling?"

"Yeah," Geralt says. His voice is hoarse, and only bordering on coherence. "Good." 

"Splendid." Regis chuckles quietly. "A few times I thought you might have fallen asleep - not that it would have been a problem if you had. I am glad you found it relaxing. Not all of one's woes can be cured with a good hair wash and massage, but many of them can be improved." 

Geralt does feel improved, a bit. He feels relaxed for the first time in weeks, and more relaxed than he's felt in months - years, maybe, if he's being honest. He tries not to think too much about that part, because he shouldn't feel so soothed by getting scrubbed and rubbed by someone he's been aware of for less than a year and has only had a little over two actual conversations with. Geralt has had only the smallest handful of people throughout his whole life that he'd allow to touch him like that, and one of them recently divorced him. But something about Regis gets past his threat sensors, and makes that hair wash and massage feel okay. Comforting. Geralt knows he shouldn't be giving into indulgences like that at all, but it's easy to forget that now. Geralt might be in La Mara every morning claiming he needs another haircut, until he's nearly bald, just for that treatment. 

"Well, let's start the trimming," Regis says. He takes a comb out of the jar of sanitizing solution on the counter of the barber station and then works it carefully through Geralt's wet hair, starting in the front and pulling it to the back of his head. Once it's combed out, Regis gathers a bit of it into his hand in an imitation of Geralt's signature half-ponytail. "Am I correct in assuming you'd like it to look best pulled back, in the style you usually wear it?" Geralt hums in agreement, and Regis releases his hair to fall loosely around his face. "As I thought. It's quite a good look on you, but I must say it looks just as good down like this. Then again, any hairstyle would be becoming on you - ah, to have your bone structure. It's a barber's dream." 

Geralt's heart pounds furiously as Regis combs his hair into sections and pins most of them up with little plastic clips from the jar, and he hopes Regis is too concentrated on his work to notice how flushed Geralt's face has gotten. 

"So, tell me, Geralt," Regis says, adjusting Geralt's head to be perfectly level before retrieving a pair of scissors and brandishing them aloft with an intensity that would be terrifying if it wasn't slightly theatrical. He combs the back of Geralt's hair out again, then holds the ends between his fingers and studies them with a noise of pity at how uneven they are, before finally getting around to what he wants Geralt to tell him. "Aside from various professional endeavors and hobbies involving plants and potions, how do you enjoy spending your time?" 

With stuff involving plants and potions scratched off the list, that list is pretty short. Geralt doesn't do a whole lot, and none of it sounds very interesting. Most of it overlaps with the much longer list of things he hasn't gotten to do much since he got sick. "Reading about animals, I guess. Working out. Long walks on the beach." 

Regis chuckles, and Geralt's glad his half-joke landed. He likes making Regis laugh, and wishes he was witty enough to do it more often. The first snip of the scissors at the back of his head doesn't make him nervous, like somebody chopping scissors near his head usually would, but it's not pleasant and he appreciates the distraction. "So you are an expert in both flora and fauna. Any particular type?" 

"Horses," Geralt replies. "And cryptids. Mysterious creatures there's stories about, but nobody has any evidence of besides tall tales, or blurry photos that could be just about anything, or claims that they saw a glimpse of something on a really dark night. Don't know how much I believe in them, but they're interesting. My daughter used to ask to hear cryptid legends as bedtime stories." 

"Sounds like she takes after her father." Regis's voice is light with amusement, which is the best response to that tradition that Geralt's ever gotten. Ciri's friends' parents used to get mad and accuse Geralt of traumatizing his daughter when she told her little twelve and thirteen year old friends about creepy monsters and said she heard the stories from her dad. "Ciri is her name, correct? Does she still live in Vengerberg?" 

"Moved to the City of Nilfgaard about a year ago," Geralt says. "Got a fancy job in the big city." 

"Ah, the City of Golden Towers. An excellent - if impressively daunting - place to strike out on one's own." The snips of Regis's scissors continue in a steady rhythm, quick and efficient but careful, as another section of hair gets unclipped and brushed down to be cut. "I've visited it a few times, but I would never choose to live there - likely for the same reasons Ciri has decided to make it her home, if I understand young people these days. The hustle and bustle, the lights and the noise, the crowds and the clamor, always on the go and all that. Have you visited the city?" 

"Yeah. Twice. Took Ciri on a birthday trip when she turned eighteen. She loved it, talked for months about all the cool stuff she saw there and how shiny it was. I hated it. Wouldn't go back until I had to help her move." Geralt grimaces. "Not a fan of cities." 

Geralt's slowly starting to get used to answering Regis's yes-or-no questions with answers that aren't just _yes_ or _no_ , and he doesn't know if he should stop himself from getting used to it. It feels safe enough to give Regis more than one word, especially with the way the chatty barber's yes-or-no questions are intended to prompt a paragraph, but still. Geralt's had it beaten into him over and over that the quickest way to get himself into trouble is talking too much. Literally, at first. Until he learned the lesson. It's an old habit that's served him very well, most of the time. But there are people it hasn't served him well with, like Ciri and Yennefer, and he had to learn that lesson too. It's seeming more and more like Regis might be one of those people. 

"I suppose you must have lived on the outskirts of Vengerberg, then? I've heard the city proper can be overwhelming, especially for those who prefer quieter areas. Much more bearable than the City of Nilfgaard, to be sure, but difficult nonetheless." Regis moves to the left side of Geralt's head, taking out another one of the clips holding his long and split hair off his neck and snapping it onto the top of his apron for safekeeping. The bit of frizz from where the shorter bits of broken strands are starting to dry makes Geralt wrinkle his nose, and he's not sure why he let his hair get into this state and why he thought that was fine. He wonders how much longer he would've left it like that, getting worse and worse, if Regis hadn't staged an intervention. Regis sighs pityingly at the ends again, then says, "May I ask, if it's not too nosy, what led you to move to Duén Lara?" 

Geralt's surprised when he finds himself giving an honest answer. And not just an honest answer - a complete one. An answer he never thought he'd give anybody. "Got divorced. Ciri moved away. My horse died. Had to quit my construction job. Never liked Vengerberg much. We were pretty far into the city and it was too damn loud, too many people. Wasn't anything left for me there, once those things were gone. Wanted to do something different, somewhere quiet. Start over, I guess." 

Geralt ducks his head in embarrassment, and keeps his eyes lowered even when Regis tilts his head back up so he can comb through the hair and continue the trim. Geralt thought he'd opened up a lot last time, but now he's laid himself completely bare. He's here in Duén Lara because he ran away from the fact that he lost everything in a place that was _too damn loud_. He moved to this town without even visiting it because he needed to go somewhere, anywhere, that wasn't a constant reminder of how the place that had once been his home had nothing for him anymore. He couldn't live surrounded by the ghosts of everything that mattered to him. It's the first time Geralt has admitted to anyone what he was hoping for when he came to Duén Lara, the hope he didn't want to let himself have because it would probably be dashed like almost every other hope he's had during his forty years of life, but couldn't make himself push away: Geralt moved to Duén Lara because he wanted to start over. 

And Regis knows all that now. Maybe Regis will judge Geralt for letting his life fall apart, for driving his wife away, for becoming too broken down for his job, for not being able to handle living in a city. Maybe Regis will tell Geralt that his hope is too unrealistic, that nobody gets to just start over, especially someone like Geralt. Someone who's been through so much shit and made so many mistakes. Even when Geralt tried to run away, those mistakes had sunk so deeply into every part of him that they came along to haunt him. Memories of the times he upset Yennefer, guilt from the years he couldn't give Ciri everything she wanted, aches from the work injuries he didn't properly care for, pains he got by making bad choices with the wrong crowds, knowledge of everyone he had hurt or betrayed, the worn down feeling of age that sunk in after a wasted youth. Things that couldn't simply be left behind when Geralt fled. Things Geralt doesn't deserve to free himself from, even if he was able to. 

The thought of Regis judging him makes Geralt want to clam up. To keep everything to himself, like he always does. To hide anything that might give anyone another reason to disdain him, when so many reasons are already apparent. But it's too late, and he can't take back what he said. Geralt can only cling to another hope: that if Regis was able to lower his defenses, to get past the protective layers that he's fortified with the hardened residue of decades of hurt, to make it past the skeptical guard that expects everyone to be a threat, then he's safe. Geralt hopes he doesn't end up regretting trying, for the first time in a long time, to trust someone new. He hopes Regis is someone safe. 

"Those are good reasons," Regis says, thoughtfully. "Sometimes what one needs, drastic as it may feel, is a fresh start. They don't come easy - second, third, even thirteenth chances - I, of all people, would know. But nonetheless, they are worth attempting. And you, Geralt, have chosen a good place to attempt one. I'm glad you're here." 

Geralt can't look up, can't speak, can't even think, when Regis briefly squeezes his shoulder before getting back to work. Regis snips away in silence for a while, giving Geralt the space he desperately needs, combing and cutting and unclipping and stroking until he's finished the left side of Geralt's hair. Regis moves to the right side of Geralt's head and repeats the process there, still saying nothing. Geralt sits, listens to the sound of the scissors and the barber's quiet and even breaths, and breathes along with him. 

"As I am fond of saying, stories of this sort are reciprocal exchanges," Regis says after a while, with the last few snips of his scissors at the right side of Geralt's hair. "So, to be fair, I'll tell you my own in return." 

"I'd love to hear it," Geralt says, and genuinely means it. He hopes Regis can hear that he also means, _I'm glad you're here too_. 

"Well, first we should address the matter of most pressing importance - your satisfaction with the state of your hair." Regis says it so seriously that Geralt has to muffle a snort of amusement, because his satisfaction with the state of his hair has always been on the bottom of his list of things to worry about. With how bad it looked when he came in, that should be pretty obvious. But the barber doesn't seem to be joking around, and he clearly takes a lot of pride in his work, so Geralt tries to approach this as seriously as he does. Regis combs Geralt's entire head and then holds various sections of hair between his fingers, examining the ends, giving them the occasional snip here and there. Once he's fully circled Geralt and smoothed everything down again with his hands, Regis smiles in approval. "There. That's your trim done, unless you'd like any further adjustments. I am at your service." 

Geralt looks at himself in the mirror, hesitantly. His hair's still damp, silver and flat, but he can tell it looks good. It feels good, too. His head feels light, and in a good way, not the bad way he gets when he stands up. His neck feels cooler with the strands just barely brushing his shoulders, even and rid of the brittle split ends. With the way Geralt's hair is always a mess barely contained by an elastic band and he looks so run-down in general, he hadn't realized those frizzy dead parts were adding so much to his ragged look. It makes Geralt look different, and better off for it. He nods. "Yeah. Looks good." 

"Thank you for the positive verdict. I aim to please." Regis pulls Geralt's hair back into a ponytail and then twists it up, using a few of the clips to keep it out of the way. "And now for your face. Clean up the cheek and neck areas, then trim the beard and moustache to the length you generally keep them when not clean-shaven, I presume? Correct me if I'm wrong - and if I am not, then I shall get to work while I tell you that story." 

Geralt closes his eyes in assent, and lets Regis put his skills to work. If Regis could fix up his hair like that, a beard trim is nothing. He knows Regis will make him look as good as anybody could, given his appearance and his condition. For now, he concentrates on listening. 

"I recall, during our last meeting, regaling you with a condensed version of my journey into - and then, by chance, out of - medicine. I had concluded with my move to Duén Lara, but not addressed the reasons I endeavored to undertake it." Regis's voice slips into that wistful reminiscing tone, the one that tells Geralt to settle in for a long story, as the buzz of a small electric beard trimmer starts up on the slightly unkempt part of Geralt's right cheek. "I suppose I felt much like you, Geralt - yearning for a fresh start. However, as I was overall content with my life in Dillingen, I was unaware of how heavily the shadow of my past loomed over me. As I inevitably returned to Dillingen every time I attempted to leave it, I felt much like a plant with strong roots tethering it immovably into a small and constrained patch overcast by shade that blocked out the sun."

Geralt breathes in Regis's earthy cologne and pictures the plant. He can see that dark, tiny patch clearly. 

"About a decade and a half into my final return to Dillingen, I developed the desire to study the White Wolf Gull," Regis says, turning his attention to Geralt's neck. "You know of my affinity for creatures of the avian persuasion, and this seagull, with all its odd habits and quirks - including its unusual howling cry from which its name comes - interested me. It is a rare and elusive creature, which makes an appearance for one week every year in Duén Lara - and, of course, if you want to observe seagulls, this is the place to do it. So I turned my barbershop and healer's practice over to the young woman that had been apprenticing with me, and set off on a month-long scientific expedition. And, my, what I observed. I could talk for hours about the gulls! But once I had spent some length of time in Duén Lara, become enraptured by the sun and the sea, and begun to meet people I cared for deeply, the thought of returning yet again to my dreary point of origin seemed far less palatable than it had in the past." 

The soft snip of small scissors starts up around Geralt's chin, slow and carefully angled. Regis tilts Geralt's head up very gently as they continue to work their way around his face, and then continues the story. 

"On the last night of my vacation, I found myself - though I am not a superstitious man - asking the universe to send me a sign: if a seagull were to fly by my window within the following hour, I would pack up my home, pass my shop and practice along to my apprentice, and move to Duén Lara with the intention to remain permanently." Regis chuckles, as the scissors snip along the hair above Geralt's upper lip. "Of course, as you may have guessed, I was requesting a sign that was guaranteed to appear. Multiple seagulls flew by, and some even looped back around, as if to ensure I had not missed them. And so, well, here I am." 

Regis pats Geralt on the shoulder. Geralt opens his eyes gradually, eyelids lifting in stages, and looks up at Regis sleepily.

Regis smiles at how slowly Geralt is blinking, whisking the stray strands of hair from the shave off his face and neck with a soft duster brush. "And here you are as well, cleaned up very nicely. You are a handsome man, Geralt, a handsome man indeed. And I'll have you know, I don't say that to all my clients."

"I'm not much to look at," Geralt mumbles, cheeks flushed. He's never been good-looking, always been a strange freakish sight with his hulking frame and sharp canine teeth and yellow long-pupiled eyes, and he only got more unpleasant looking with the jagged switchblade slash down the left side of his face and the color stripped out of his hair decades before it should be. And ever since he's gotten sick he's been downright ghastly, a barely connected abomination of grey skin and sunken eyes and thinning limbs, like some reanimated creature that never should've been brought back from whatever line it fell on the other side of. Repulsive. He wishes nobody could see him at all. 

"As someone who is looking at you, I must disagree," Regis says. He takes the clips out of Geralt's hair, letting it tumble down to his shoulders, and sets them down on the dark wood counter before reaching for the comb again. He runs the implement through Geralt's hair until it lies smooth and even and softer than Geralt's ever seen it. He hates looking at himself these days, even more than usual, but he still finds himself staring into the mirror in surprise. The ragged mop of dull, stringy, oily pale strands is gone, and in its place is a shiny flow of silky pearl-white hair. Geralt doesn't know how Regis did it, but between his tamed hair and cleaned up beard, he looks almost like something he wouldn't flinch away from. Regis looks very pleased with his work as he tucks the left side of Geralt's hair behind his ear, and Geralt has to keep from shivering as Regis's fingers brush his cheekbone and the jagged scar. "My, you look stunning. Well, I won't keep you all day." 

Geralt wouldn't mind that. He looks up into Regis's eyes, a little helpless, and part of him hopes Regis will change his mind and keep him after all. He's comfortable in La Mara, and comfortable talking to Regis. Regis makes him feel the same way Dettlaff does: really, truly _seen_ , and so pleasantly uncomfortable that he should want to run from it but instead he wants to stay. Geralt sits still and looks into the mirror, acutely conscious of every time Regis's hands touch him, as the barber cape is removed. He feels shaky when he gets to his feet, but he forcefully steadies the wooziness in his head that threatens for a moment to overtake him so he can walk up to the counter side by side with Regis. And Geralt doesn't know what it is, or how to explain it, but it feels like the final piece of something has clicked together in the space between them. 

"How much do I owe you?" Geralt asks. He's never looked at the _Haircuts_ section of the chalkboard behind the counter where Regis has his services and prices written out in neat cursive, figuring he wouldn't need to know. He hasn't cut his hair since the divorce, but he was planning to go back to cutting it himself like he did before he met Yennefer and she made him start going to people with actual training. He'd always thought getting professional haircuts was a waste of money, since he didn't care what his own hair looked like and he could do a good job on Ciri's, but Yen didn't agree. Maybe if the snobby stylists at the high-end salon she regularly dragged him into were more like Regis, he wouldn't have grumbled about the trips and spent the whole time acting like an animal expecting to be hunted as prey. 

Regis shakes his head with a dismissive little wave of his hand. "Don't be silly, Geralt. You don't owe me anything." 

"But, the..." Geralt gestures in the general direction of his neatly trimmed beard and smooth even hair, unused to the way the motion makes the strands glide soft and gentle against his cheek, and hopes the words will fill themselves in. 

"Ah, that's nothing," Regis replies. "Don't think anything of it." 

"Wasn't nothing," Geralt says. He's talking about the effort the barber put into turning him from a scraggly mess into a half decent looking human being, but there's some part of him that's thinking about the whole experience - the wash, the massage, the trim, the shave, the conversation - and silently adding, _it meant a lot to me_. "I should pay you." 

"Come now, Geralt, I told you to not to think anything of it," Regis chides, but Geralt crosses his arms and looks at him until he relents. "Well, if you absolutely insist on payment, how about this: the answers to three questions. Does that seem like a fair price?" 

Geralt's instinct is to put his guard back up, because he hasn't had good experiences with people wanting information from him. If he says yes, he doesn't know what he's getting himself into. But this is Regis. Regis is curious, maybe a little nosy, but he seems to understand where Geralt's boundaries are. Geralt trusts Regis not to pry too much, or at least to back off from any question that does pry too much and makes Geralt uncomfortable. And if Regis hasn't judged him for everything he's already heard - Geralt's divorce, his lost job, his move, his desperate hope for a fresh start - then chances are he's not going to be harsh about anything else. So after taking a second to think, Geralt nods. "Yeah. Seems fair." 

"Thank you, Geralt. That's a generous payment indeed. Come, sit down." Regis directs Geralt to sit in a chair in the waiting area, and Geralt is surprised to find it empty. He hadn't noticed that nobody else had come into the shop, distracted by the whole interaction with Regis, but it's strange now that he thinks about it. He doesn't know how long he's been here, but he's assuming it's been a while, and the place is usually packed by this time of day. Between various clients and regulars that hang out at La Mara, Regis should've filled the chairs at the other barber stations and this whole area, but they're alone. Geralt looks around to see if there's something he's missing, and then - 

The sign in the window is flipped to _CLOSED_. Geralt knows it was on _OPEN_ when he came in, because he saw Regis change it. He's confused for a second, and then it comes together: Geralt heading back to the chair, Regis handling something before joining him a few seconds later, the barbershop staying conveniently empty for his whole visit. Regis must've switched the sign again when Geralt's back was turned. Geralt is still feeling tired and dizzy, but whatever's going on with his body must've decided that's not enough symptoms to experience at once, because an uncomfortable jittery feeling develops in his chest. Regis sits in the chair across from Geralt, which is really close with how small the area is, and meets his eyes with a gentle smile. 

"As you may recall, we have on multiple occasions intended and then failed to discuss the cypripedium nosferatus. The blame rests on me - you know I tend to veer off on tangents," Regis says. Geralt quirks the side of his mouth, because that seems like a good way to say _you do, but I like them_. "Well, my curiosity is intellectual, but I must confess there is a personal element to it. You see, I have thrice attempted to grow one, and failed all three times." 

"Three, huh. Most people give up after one," Geralt says. As pretty as the vampire orchids are, the seeds are expensive and the price tag on the full grown plants is shocking. There's not a lot of people who would shell that out multiple times for a difficult plant that gets mad at them immediately and dies almost overnight. If Regis tried three times, he must be really determined to have one. "How'd you start them? Seeds, clippings, divisions?"

"All of the above," Regis replies. "When the seeds failed, I thought perhaps a clipping would be easier to produce a viable plant from. Upon being proven wrong, I progressed to a division, thinking it might be more resilient. And alas, I was incorrect again. As a last resort, I purchased a fully mature cypripedium nosferatus from an exotic plant nursery in Temeria - and, I am ashamed to say, it quickly perished. After that, for the sake of the innocent vampire orchids, I stopped sentencing them to untimely deaths. It was with a heavy heart that I admitted defeat." 

Regis talks about giving up on growing a vampire orchid in the same tone someone might use to describe a breakup after multiple attempts to save the relationship. Geralt gets it. He'd feel the same way. And he knows how much the death of a plant can hurt, when you're emotionally invested in it. A lot of people don't understand how bad that pain can get, but Geralt's not surprised a soft-hearted plants guy like Regis is one of the people that does. 

"They're difficult flowers. Almost nobody takes them on," Geralt says quietly. "Don't blame yourself. You tried hard." 

"I did. I tried _very_ hard. I've read every snippet in the rare guides that mention them, and experimented with every technique contained therein, to no avail. It frustrates me deeply that this flower eludes me, as I have never found a plant I cannot grow. As you very well know, a few extremely rare potions can be brewed with petals from the cypripedium nosferatus, but my interest in the orchid goes deeper than that, and is perhaps foolishly sentimental - I find them to be beautiful, yes, but I feel a strange kinship with them. One I cannot explain." Regis's voice has grown wistful again, and he looks at Geralt with an expression Geralt isn't used to seeing on the confident and cheerful barber's face - uncertainty. "So, Geralt, I suppose I am asking for your guidance. How does one care for a vampire orchid?" 

Geralt thinks for a minute. The real answer is probably _one doesn't, unless one is lucky or magic_. He wasn't lying when he told Regis most people give up after one attempt, and it's true that trying three times to grow the flower and then buying a mature one places Regis in a very small group of people. And it seems like Regis knows that. But what Regis probably doesn't know is that there have been a few cases of people who got obsessed with vampire orchids and then spent their whole lives trying to grow one, only to die without ever succeeding. Their stories get whispered through the grapevine of serious cypripedium nosferatus growers, both as cautionary tales and objects of pity. Geralt thinks it's best not to pass them along to Regis. He'll stick to passing along knowledge that might give a would-be grower a fighting chance.

"If you've read the guides, you've got the basics. Thing is, I've read them too, and they leave a lot out," Geralt says, and tries not to get flustered by Regis's rapt attention fixed on him. "Most of those guides were written by people who never grew a vampire orchid, getting their research from other people who never grew a vampire orchid. That's why you see them written about in books like _Complicated Flora_ with vague stuff about humid climates and adequate sunlight. I've grown a couple: grew my first one from seeds on the first try, grew the second from a division from the first, helped two other florists grow two more. So what I'm gonna say sounds ridiculous, but hear me out." 

"Of course," Regis replies, nodding enthusiastically without taking his focused black eyes off Geralt. "You are the expert, Geralt, and I would never dream of doing otherwise." 

"Well... you gotta talk to vampire orchids. A lot. Tell them about your day, tell them stories, whatever you want, as long as you're talking to them with good energy. Most important part, though, is to give your orchid a name. And call it by its name." Geralt feels his shoulders hunching a bit, and has to consciously broaden them again. He always feels embarrassed telling people this part. He knows it sounds silly, and other people have made that pretty clear to him. The first time he suggested it, to a long-time attempter, he got scoffed at and told he was pulling things out of his ass. Experienced growers look at him sideways for sharing his unusual discovery, at least at first. Regis is a science-minded guy with critical thinking skills, and Geralt doesn't want to look stupid in front of him. But Regis is smiling encouragingly at him, and that makes it easier for Geralt to explain. "Vampire orchids can learn their names, and understand them. Know it sounds crazy, but I've taught all the ones I've grown their names, and they'll perk up when they hear them. They have to know you're talking _to_ them, not just around them. If they know how much you care about them, they'll give you more patience." 

Geralt knows this from experience. His vampire orchids have stayed alive after he's disappeared on them for days, and that's a goddamn miracle. Most people's flower will die if it gets breathed on wrong, even if that person's been raising it for decades. But Geralt's have names - Fiona and Elen, after Ciri's middle names - and they know he loves them. He just hopes their patience with him doesn't run out. Not when so many people's patience with him, including his patience with himself, is already running out.

"Fascinating! You're right, it is rather unorthodox to think that a bit of chatter and a form of address might be a literal matter of life and death, but it's not strange at all when you look beneath the surface." Regis nods, stroking his chin as he gazes out the window at a seagull swooping by. "I have read many scientific studies regarding the positive effects of speaking kindly to plants. And if cypripedium nosferati can indeed understand the concept of a form of address unique to themselves, or at least the correlation between a certain combination of sounds and the provision of direct attention, that would be remarkable indeed." 

"Thanks for considering it. The thing with the orchid names," Geralt says. His ears are flushed bright red within his newly glossy white hair as he watches Regis ponder, lost in thought over the strange discovery Geralt stumbled upon by getting too attached to a flower and treating it like a friend. "Most people write it off as nonsense." 

"Hardly." Regis turns back to Geralt with a smile, his eyes lit up and his concentration fully on Geralt even as the seagull out the window gets into a violent screaming match with a few others on the front walk of La Mara. "There's a solid bit of theory behind it, and, if your results are replicable, evidence as well. It is the mark of a small mind to write off something that sounds unconventional without the slightest consideration, particularly when the claim could be backed up, as you mentioned, by studying an arousal response in the plant. While we could not say with certainty how the exact combination of sounds registers to the flower, it is worth investigating. Particularly in the face of your remarkable success. Imagine! An orchid with a concept of self. My attraction to the cypripedium nosferatus only grows." 

"Yeah. They're pretty special." Geralt gives Regis a small smile in return. It takes a bit of effort, rearranging his features into an expression they barely ever make, but it seems worth trying. His ears still feel warm. "Keep them in a humidity tray, and don't give them too much sunlight. Delicate balance between too much and not enough, but they'll tell you pretty quickly if you're getting it wrong. Think that covers most of what the guides leave out." 

"Thank you, Geralt, for your expert advice. While I'm not certain I will ever do anything with this knowledge, simply having it is priceless, and I am forever grateful." Regis reaches out to squeeze the hand Geralt has resting loosely on his knee, and Geralt becomes almost overwhelmingly aware of how small the space between their chairs is right before his chest starts doing that heated and jittery thing again. He takes a deep breath to calm it down, hoping he's not about to have some kind of episode in front of Regis, and is relieved when it subsides. Regis doesn't seem to have noticed, but, disappointingly, he's pulled back his hand. "My second question, far more mundane and far less consequential: what is your favorite beverage?" 

Geralt thinks about it. It's probably one of his own tea blends: the wolfberry, sweet verbena myrtle, hibiscus, et al green tea. The one he gave Dettlaff, but that sounds arrogant. The next few drinks on the list are booze. So he settles on, "Elderflower juice." 

"I see," Regis says, without elaborating on what exactly he sees. "I believe I have been granted one last question, and then I shall cease interrogating you. What is one of your favorite memories?" 

Geralt's mind goes blank. The question freezes him up, like anything that tries to draw out too much about his past or the things that mean a lot to him. A lot of the memories that have stuck with him most clearly over the years are shit, most of them things he wishes never happened in the first place. The happy memories always seem blurrier, and fade more easily, leaving Geralt clutching them to his chest like they won't start to dissolve if he grips them hard enough. Yennefer told him once that living through too many bad memories affects the brain in some way that makes it hard to form and keep good ones, especially when those bad memories start really young and never stop, and Geralt knew she was explaining something they both felt. And maybe this is the kind of question Geralt was afraid of, when he hesitated before saying yes to Regis. 

It'd be fine to pass on the question, Geralt knows. Regis would let him. But then he realizes, it's not actually that hard to answer. If he needs a good memory, he can look at one of the only parts of his life that's ever brought him happiness: his daughter. If he looks back at those clear good memories he struggles to hoard, almost all of them involve Ciri. 

There are the usual milestones in Geralt's little girl's life: her adoption, her birthdays, her first days of high school and college, her graduations, the day he moved all her stuff into her first grown up apartment in Nilfgaard and teased her about how she'd moved into a shoebox while helping her put her new furniture together. There are also unique ones, ones that a lot of people might consider smaller, but are very distinctly Ciri. Ones like their doomed fishing trip, when Geralt tried to be a normal dad despite being an abnormal man who had never had a dad and copied stereotypical things he saw on TV, only to reach the very predictable result that a thirteen year old girl didn't enjoy sitting on a pier for four hours holding a homemade stick-and-wire fishing rod baited with a worm they found next to the lake that might not even have had fish. Maybe some of them stuck more clearly than he thinks. 

Finally, after an amount of time that Geralt hopes wasn't uncomfortably long, he says, "Guess one of my favorites is from Ciri's birthday trip to Nilfgaard. Some guy almost killed me, and Ciri lost it." 

"A near death experience?" Regis looks startled and intrigued. "You cannot stop there, Geralt. You _must_ explain that. Spare no detail, I insist." 

Geralt shifts in his chair, thinking of how to start. He can tell stories about cryptids, and he can talk in detail about plants and potions, but he's not good at talking or storytelling past that. He's especially bad at telling stories from his life, since he never got any real practice with it. He can ramble to his plants, or to a horse, but he can't open up about himself to humans. Yennefer would trick him into talking about himself, and Ciri would tease stories out of him by asking a question and then nagging him for explanations of every one-sentence answer until he got frustrated enough that it was easier to tell her the whole thing. But then Regis crossed his path enough times to crack his shell open, asking plenty of questions to ease him into it, and gave Geralt plenty of examples of detailed storytelling himself. Geralt made the barber a promise, and if he thinks about it, this is really more of a story about Ciri than himself. So maybe it won't be too hard. 

"Nilfgaard. Six years ago. Saturday morning, sunny. Two streets away from Millennium Square," Geralt says, trying to set the scene like he does when he tells Ciri monster legends. He feels awkward the second the words come out of his mouth, but Regis looks enraptured. "Ciri wanted to go to that big department store, Dermott & Gwyndolyn, and take a picture making bunny ears on the Torres var Emreis statue. We were crossing Millennium Avenue when a taxi ran a red light. Asshole was going full speed. Almost ran me over. Screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection, and still hit my leg pretty hard with his bumper. Ciri stomped up to the taxi and banged on the window and started yelling at the guy. Said some words she'd never said before, but definitely learned from me. Some pretty creative threats, too. Really let loose on that asshole. Eighteen year old girl, baby faced and skinny, and still had the guy shitting his pants. He probably thought she'd break the window, and I think she would've. She'd mastered three martial arts, two types of swordfighting, and throwing knives, and I wouldn't've put it past her to show him that. Never been so proud of my little girl." 

"Oh, my. What a tale." Regis is chuckling softly, shaking his head as he lets out a warm laugh. "I assume Ciri did not, in fact, cross swords with a taxi?" 

"Nope. Didn't have a sword on her. If she had, she probably would've tried." Geralt shrugs. "We went on to Millennium Square. Ciri kept ranting about the guy the whole way there. I took her to Dermott & Gwyndolyn, told her she was a fuckin' terror and I was proud of her, and bought her everything she wanted. Then we took that picture with the statue." 

"Thank you, Geralt. I appreciate the thrilling story - very well told, too." Regis places a gentle hand back over the one Geralt's resting on his knee, and Geralt turns his head a little to the side and looks down at his lap like that might hide the way his face is getting pink. He doesn't know if Regis is just humoring him by complimenting his storytelling, but even if he is, it's a nice thing to do. "I know you may find the answers to these questions a strange thing to ask for in place of money, but I find deeper knowledge of those I care about - both plant and human - to be valuable indeed. And, in most cases, far more valuable than money." 

Geralt's blushing even deeper now, and he doesn't know how to stop. He wouldn't take it too seriously, Regis implying he cares about him, except that most people wouldn't ask a question as deep and revealing as _what is one of your favorite memories_. Nobody would ask that kind of question, out of nowhere, unless they actually do care. That's not something Geralt gets often. And it's not something he knows how to deal with, because it's not something he deserves. Geralt mumbles down to Regis's hand on his knee, "Should still pay you." 

"I must admit, I was being selfish by requesting compensation in the form of conversation," Regis confesses. "Especially as you have already provided me with your company throughout the duration of your visit." 

Geralt looks up again, and finds the barber actually looking sheepish. It gives him the courage to reply, "That so?" 

"Yes," Regis says, and squeezes his hand. "Time with you, Geralt, is worth far more than a trim and a shave." 

"Seems like I owe you lunch, then," Geralt says, while he can still get his mouth to say the words. He turns his hand over to interlock his fingers with Regis's. This time, the little smile is easier to form. "Getting more than a trim and a shave out of this too." 

"Oh." Regis blinks, his gentle black eyes a lot wider than usual. He looks surprised, and his hand tenses up a bit in Geralt's hold. Then he looks at Geralt without saying anything, even though he always says something. " _Oh_."

And as Geralt and Regis look at each other in silence, Geralt realizes he fucked up. He misread the situation between him and Regis, and badly. Somebody was nice to him, somebody showed some interest in his life, somebody was _friendly_ , and Geralt jumped to the conclusion that they might be romantically interested in him. It seems like a stupid leap to make, put that way. The thought of anybody being into him romantically is so far-fetched that it's hard to believe he had a second where it felt likely. He was probably an idiot to consider that could be an option with Dettlaff, too. He doesn't know what's going on with him lately, making conceited assumptions and then flattering himself into thinking they're not a major stretch. There's a reason Geralt never thinks like this, and it's playing out right in front of him. He should've kept his mouth shut. Fuck, he should've kept his stupid mouth shut. Geralt's mind is racing, trying to figure out how to backpedal without making it even more awkward for both of them, and he almost misses it when Regis speaks again. 

"Do correct me if I'm wrong in my presumption of this proposed outing as a date in the courtship sense of the word, because I am pleased to accompany you to lunch regardless," Regis says, tentatively. Geralt doesn't correct him. After a moment, Regis intertwines his fingers more securely with Geralt's and he breaks into a wide smile that shows a lot of his teeth. "Yes, of course, Geralt. I would be delighted to go on a lunch date with you. Do you have anywhere particular in mind?" 

Geralt feels like he's just gotten whiplash. It feels like shock and confusion, plus a whole mix of other things, but mostly relief. Relief that he didn't just fuck up everything between him and Regis. The rest of the feelings are way too much to sort through, so Geralt doesn't try. All he can reply with is, in an impressively steady and suave voice considering the circumstances, "Surprise me." 

"I fear my surprise shall be a mild one, given the size and amenities of Duén Lara, but I shall do my best." Regis nods once, resolutely. "As I am picking the location, you should pick the day and time." 

Geralt didn't come into La Mara expecting to ask a charming barber on a date, so he hasn't thought about what would be a good time for an unexpected date with that charming barber. He's also never checked La Mara's business hours. So he throws out, because any guess will be a shot in the dark, "Wednesday at noon work for you?" 

"Yes, perfect. It just so happens that Wednesday is my day off," Regis replies. Geralt's glad to see he's gotten something right. He might've done such a terrible job of asking Regis on a date that neither of them were sure it was a date, and then had no idea where to go, but picking a decent time has to count for something. "How about we meet at the community garden, and from there I will take you to the location of my yet to be determined surprise?" 

Geralt nods once, an unintentional mirror of Regis. "Garden sounds good."

The confidence in Geralt's voice is a bluff. He knows, and it makes him feel like he's being dragged down somewhere dark to admit it, that nothing is really good for him. He can't guarantee Wednesday won't be a bad day, or that the garden won't be too far for him to make it. That he won't be too achy, too sick, too tired. He's felt a bit better today and yesterday, but since he doesn't know anything about this illness, he doesn't know how long that will last. If he'll be miserable again tomorrow. If he'll be bedridden the day after that. Geralt feels a surge of anxiety knowing that now he has to worry about both Monday and Wednesday being good days, so he won't disappoint either Dettlaff or Regis. But even if Wednesday is an awful day, Geralt knows he'll do anything he can to make it. Anything he can to go out with Regis. He should probably hope for the worst, which will give him an excuse not to go, because he likes Regis and he doesn't want to ruin what they have. Geralt doesn't know how dating works, and if Regis is looking for anything serious, he's going to feel led on when he discovers Geralt isn't the kind of person anyone would want to be in a relationship with. But Geralt is weak and selfish, and he wants this. He wants just one chance with Regis. 

Regis rubs his thumb over Geralt's, and Geralt feels an inextricable tangle of emotions when he looks down at where his and Regis's fingers are intertwined. "Then I shall look forward to it. See you on Wednesday, Geralt." 

Geralt and Regis see each other sooner than Wednesday. That's because of the second vampire orchid Geralt mentioned to Regis, the one grown from the division.

What Regis said about the vampire orchids sticks in Geralt's head, and he thinks about it the whole way home from La Mara. How much Regis loves them, the strange kinship he feels with them, how much he wants one. And how every time they meet, they plan to talk about them. Geralt barely notices the morning upswing of activity starting up along North and South Seagull Street, or the way it quiets down when he turns onto East Seagull Street. The first thing he does once he unlocks the door to Elixirs and steps inside is look for Fiona. 

Geralt brushed over his orchids pretty quick while he was talking to Regis, mentioned them like resume lines, but the truth is they're a lot more than that and the story behind them is anything but quick. Fiona looks good today, fully bounced back from the the slight browning and curling it got on the edge of some of its jet black petals after Geralt went missing in action. The red streaks running through them are vibrant. Geralt doesn't smile much, which he's sure nobody's complaining about with what an unpleasant sight his smile is, but he smiles at seeing Fiona healthy. 

Next, Geralt checks on Elen. Elen's the plant grown from the division, a lot smaller than Fiona but pretty and healthy with enough root growth to be treated like an established plant. Right before Geralt moved to Duén Lara, Fiona got too big for its pot. Geralt had a choice: repot the whole plant, or divide it. He decided he was ready for a second cypripedium nosferatus, that it was going to be easier to move two smaller ones than one big one anyway, and carefully split off part of his first one. Geralt's been keeping Elen on a shelf in the far corner of his workroom in a humidity tray under a timed artificial sun lamp, to make sure it gets talked to plenty throughout the day. He loves Elen, but he's gotten the sense for a while that it's bored. And now that Geralt's not working as much as he used to, spending a lot less time in his workroom, he's started to worry about Elen. It's looking a little droopy, like it gets when it's lonely. 

And the thing is, Geralt could sell Elen. He could sell it for a _lot_ of money. Cypripedium nosferati are getting rarer and rarer on the open market, and the price is reacting accordingly. But selling Elen doesn't feel right. He's thought about giving it to Ciri, but he couldn't stick her with a tricky plant to worry about taking care of, not when she's got a busy schedule with a million responsibilities and a tiny city apartment. And with Ciri out of the question, Geralt couldn't think of anywhere else he'd want it to go.

The reason Geralt could never sell Elen is this: it was a gift from Yennefer. She gave Geralt the seeds he grew Fiona from on their first wedding anniversary, in the same purple velvet jewelry box he used for her engagement ring. The one that matched the color of her eyes. Yen was so proud of him when the seeds actually took and, in nothing short of a miracle, he grew them a cypripedium nosferatus on his first try. Even when Geralt and Yennefer's marriage was falling apart, they took care of their orchid together. As their marriage unravelled further and further, Geralt talked to the flower in a positive tone about a lot of things that hurt. He once caught Yennefer doing the same. And Elen is a separate plant now, one that Geralt split off at the start of his new life, but he can't help but see it as an extension of Fiona. Something like Fiona's daughter. So Geralt can't sell Elen. He can't trade it away for money in the same way he'd sell a bag of tea. And he definitely can't let it go to anyone who might not love it the same way he does. 

But it would be kinder for Elen to have a new home now, with Geralt sick. Somewhere it will be less bored. Somewhere it will be less lonely. Somewhere it will get all the conversation it wants. Somewhere it's guaranteed to be loved. And Geralt thinks he might have found somewhere he'd want Elen to go. 

So Geralt takes Elen down from its shelf in his workroom, places it on his worktable, runs his thumb over one of its gorgeous black and red petals, and has a long and important talk with it. 

Geralt shows up on the doorstep of La Mara right before Regis closes the shop for the day. He finds Regis having just finished good-naturedly shooing out the last few people hanging around, joking about sweeping them away with a broom until they head back onto North Seagull Street laughing. But as soon as Regis sees Geralt, he waves him inside. Geralt suddenly feels awkward, standing there in the empty barbershop as the light dims from the sunset with an orchid pot in his hands. As usual, he hadn't decided on anything good to say.

"My, what a beautiful cypripedium nosferatus. Absolutely gorgeous," Regis says. Just like he asks Geralt before touching his face or his hair, he indicates Elen and says, "May I?" 

"Sure," Geralt says.

Regis leans in and inspects Elen closely. "Simply stunning. Is this the orchid grown from the division?"

"Yeah," Geralt says, then holds Elen's pot out to Regis. He's suddenly hit with a shock of uncertainty, wondering if this is too much, if he's coming on too strong. But he's here, and he has the flower, and it's too late to reconsider. "Thought maybe you'd like it." 

"Of course I like it," Regis says, and smiles at Geralt. "It's lovely." 

"I meant, like it, as in..." Geralt holds the pot closer to Regis. "To have it." 

"Oh!" Regis's face grows open with surprise, and his soft black eyes widen. "Geralt, I couldn't possibly." 

"You could," Geralt says. Regis is looking at Elen with such longing and affection that he knows he's making the right choice. And he knows he needs to keep insisting until Regis accepts the orchid. "So take it." 

"No, Geralt, I really couldn't, I..." Regis takes Elen's pot from Geralt and looks down at it the way he might look at a baby that's been unexpectedly placed into his arms to be adopted. Hopeful and fond, but a little afraid. The same look Geralt had when he got his copy of Ciri's official adoption papers. "We don't know yet if I can keep one alive. I know the theory, true, and you've taught me the secret tricks, but I'm not certain I'll succeed in applying the knowledge. This poor soul could be doomed in short order to a withered grave." 

Geralt knows that, and normally he'd be scared of it. Thinking about the possibility would be enough to make him snatch the orchid back out of someone else's hands and take it far away from them. But what Geralt's figured out over the past few weeks is that he trusts Regis. Trusts him a lot. Trusts him enough to bare his throat to him, to entrust his hair to him, to willingly ask him to put a knife on a face that's known so many threats and so much pain. Trusts him enough to tell him about his life, his losses, his loves, his mistakes, and his hope. And Geralt knows they got into this situation precisely because Regis has killed vampire orchids before, and a lot of them. But Regis is one of the smartest people Geralt's ever met, one of the most skilled, and one of the most empathetic. Geralt's taught him the tricks, and he knows Regis will immediately tell him if he needs him to step in. And the most important trick is love and care. So with one more bit of knowledge, he'll fully trust Regis to keep Elen alive. 

"You'll keep it alive. I'll help you. But you'll do fine," Geralt promises. "Already told it who you are, and that it can trust you, and that it should be patient with you. Its name is Elen. See you Wednesday at the garden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: potion-induced chronic illness, brief mentions of past child neglect and abuse.
> 
> [omaano](https://omaano.tumblr.com) drew [some lovely art of the scene in dettlaff's toy shop](https://omaano.tumblr.com/post/640600847722610688)!
> 
> [stickynote](https://stickynote7.tumblr.com%20rel=) drew [some adorable art of the scene where geralt gives regis the plant](https://stickynote7.tumblr.com/post/641066959820193792)!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to #KbasSquad for the support and sprints and constant nagging, Rebecca for listening to complaints and aggressively nudging me into working on this fic, Isa the #1 barbershop scene fan for encouragement and eleventh hour company, and KB for motivation and accolades with ominous undertones. 
> 
> [Tumblr @ wraithproblem](http://wraithproblem.tumblr.com).


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